


Quitting Through The Ages, or, Sport In A Time Of Midlife Crises

by renaissance, TobermorianSass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Ensemble Cast, Gen, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Humor, Mary Sue Big Bang, Midlife Crises, Politics, Quidditch, Satire, Teen Romance, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5208608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/pseuds/TobermorianSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midlife crises and ancient Quidditch grudges intersect as Anthony Goldstein and his friends navigate the differences between the personal and the political, and their kids and themselves, as Albus Severus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy duke it out on the Quidditch pitch in their final year at Hogwarts. Also, an assassination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to patchfire for creating this [lovely fanmix](http://patchfire.livejournal.com/769327.html) for us.
> 
> Shout out to [TheDarkestStar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkestStar)/punkdraco and violetlucidity for betaing my (TobermorianSass) part of this fic. Another shout-out to openmouthwideeye for betaing my parts (memorde)!

_The battle of Nurmengard was won on the Quidditch pitches of Hogwarts.  
_ \-- Leonard Spencer-Moon, Minister for Magic, 1939 - 1948, in a speech delivered to the Wizengamot on 15 June 1945.

 

 _The Quidditch pitches of Hogwarts may have won us Nurmengard; they have been the cause of every war which followed.  
_ \-- Benjamin Rupert Smith, Gentleman Of Leisure and A Wit, 28 October 1998.

 

“You can’t seriously mean to go to war over this, it’s only _Quidditch_ ,”  
“Quidditch is _life_ , don’t be ridiculous.”

\-- Conversation between Anthony Goldstein and Michael Corner, 28 August 2023.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes from Leonard Spencer-Moon and Benjamin Rupert Smith are references to the popular misquotation, attributed to the Duke of Wellington - the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton - and the later quote by George Orwell: ‘Probably the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing-fields of Eton, but the opening battles of all subsequent wars have been lost there.’ - From [The Lion and the Unicorn](http://oupacademic.tumblr.com/post/57740288322/misquotation-the-battle-of-waterloo-was-won-on)


	2. Chapter 2

 

> **HOGWARTS UNDER ATTACK!**
> 
> Despite years of lobbying to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, our Ministry continues to turn a blind eye when it comes to some of the more insidious pests on the loose in this country. It is believed that the Rotfang Conspiracy was involved in the suppression of these vital reports to the DRCMC. Nowhere is safe anymore, not even Hogwarts, the supposed “safest place in Britain”—in the last month, Nargles and Wrackspurts have been sighted all over the ancient castle, which has made us here at the Quibbler wonder if it’s not time for a spot of fumigation.
> 
> Keen-eyed readers won’t be surprised to learn that the problem is most prevalent on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitches…

From: _The Quibbler_ , 30 October – 5 November 2023

 

* * *

 

Jeremy Brown couldn’t have been more excited to make it onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He was only a second year, and all his friends called him “Scrawny”—whether or not that was an affectionate nickname, he was yet to decide—but he was _fast_ , and his good reflexes made him a perfect keeper. For once in his life, being small and aerodynamic was a blessing rather than a curse, and being part of something so prestigious as the Quidditch team once captained by Harry Potter— _Harry Potter!_ —made Jeremy feel the most important he’d ever felt in all his twelve years.

What he hadn’t expected was all the politics.

Maybe once Quidditch had been a game played with broomsticks and balls, but the game Jeremy knew was fought behind the scenes, in the changing rooms and usually very early in the morning, too. Jeremy didn’t much fancy getting up so early, but their captain Albus Potter— _Potter_ , Albus _Potter!_ —had solemnly decreed that they would make the most of the times they could manage to book the pitch. And Jeremy couldn’t very well agree with Albus Potter.

Not that Albus wasn’t a perfectly friendly fellow—he’d been the very picture of kind and encouraging when Jeremy had first tried out for the Quidditch team, urging him to do his best despite being so young and, well, small. But, the Potter family were big and powerful, and there was apparently a lot riding on Gryffindor winning the house cup, in this, the year of Albus’ captaincy.

It didn’t seem to matter that Albus’ sister Lily was on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and _especially_ not since they were playing Ravenclaw for the first match of the year, but Jeremy couldn’t help but wonder if Gryffindor was getting a special sort of treatment.

Their first practice of the year had been everything Jeremy had looked forward to, being a part of such a prestigious Quidditch team. On the occasion of their second practice, Albus had arrived wearily with a bundle of parchment scrolls in his arms, and had proceeded to detail each strategy presented on each scroll. They didn’t get any flying done that day. And their third practice was when Oliver Wood had shown up.

Jeremy had been so excited that such a famous Quidditch player would be specially coaching their team. Oliver Wood of Puddlemere United was so well-known, and played the same position as Jeremy, that Jeremy thought Wood’s tutelage would benefit him more than anyone. It would be _grand_.

As it turned out, having Oliver Wood invested in your personal success as a keeper was _not_ grand. It was downright _horrid_. Jeremy had a special practice schedule drawn up just for him, and an exhaustive list of exotic passing drills that he was to work on with any available chaser at any available opportunity. Albus Potter was out of the question, mainly because Jeremy thought he might _die_ if he asked _Albus Potter_ to take time out of his N.E.W.T. year to do passing drills with him, but their two sixth year chasers were more than happy to oblige.

Jeremy, however, felt like with every Quaffle he caught, he was becoming scrawnier and scrawnier. It was going to be a long Quidditch season.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of the first match of the season, Fred Weasley woke up at five in the morning. The match wasn’t to start until ten, so Fred technically had plenty of time he could use for all sorts of things that would help his performance— _like sleeping_.

Except, he couldn’t get back to sleep. That was the Quidditch player’s curse. Early mornings were par for the course.

Restless and bored, Fred didn’t last long before sneaking to the other side of his dormitory and flinging open the curtains on Douglas Thomas-Finnigan’s bed, marked by the West Ham poster sitting proudly beside the Kenmare Kestrels poster on the wall beside it. Douglas was a funny fellow, but he and Fred had been putting up with each other since their first year, so there were certain lines that they were allowed to cross by now.

“Rise and shine, Dougie,” Fred greeted, pouncing onto the bed. “Ready for the big game?”

Douglas extended a hand from under his nest of blankets. He slowly raised his middle finger, and turned around to lie on his side.

“Come on now,” Fred said, “where’s your Quidditch spirit?”

“Up your arse,” Douglas snapped hoarsely.

“Not ready for the big game, are we?”

“ _Fuck off_.”

Fred tutted. “First match of the season,” he said. “You and I and some other fine fellows against the world. Our mate Mick’s commentating too. We’ve got luck on our side, Dougie.”

“If you don’t get off my bed I’ll curse you into the middle of next week,” Douglas grumbled.

“And risk playing the match without the team’s finest chaser?” Fred teased. “I think not.”

 _That_ got Douglas’ attention. He sat bolt upright, glowering at Fred. “You wanna put your money where your mouth is?”

Fred was comfortably of the opinion that no friendship was complete without a little bit of healthy competition. He and Douglas had been fighting for the position of Gryffindor’s finest chaser since their first Quidditch class, when Fred had flown a broom for the first time. Of course, it was something of a moot point, with Albus Potter in the year above them. But they were the only sixth years on the team, so _one_ of them would be captain next year, and that would be a _proper_ fight.

“Let’s practice before the match,” Fred suggested, “so we’re in top form to destroy Ravenclaw.” _Or each other_.

“You’re on,” Douglas said.

They pulled on their uniforms—showering, breakfast, all that could wait for later—and tore down to the Quidditch pitch at top speed. But of course, their brooms were stowed in the changing rooms.

Pausing outside the doors, they overhead a very curious conversation.

“Dad—”

Albus Potter’s voice. This was going to be _good_.

“Son, I know things may not seem like a big deal now, but a few years down the line, when you’re settling into your desk job at the Ministry which you thought would be exciting, you’ll look back at Hogwarts Quidditch as the best time of your life,” Harry Potter said. “You’ll think, _if only I listened to my dad_ —”

“ _Dad_ ,” Albus snapped. “I get it. This is a big deal for you. But I’ve been putting my all into this, with the training, with Oliver, and I’ve even been working on my strategic play. We’ll be _fine_.”

“Of course,” Harry said, contemplative. “Well, you know your mother and I will still love you, no matter how this match turns out.”

“Yeah,” Albus said. “Yeah, I know.”

Fred exchanged a look with Douglas. “Sounds like he’s given up,” he whispered

Douglas grinned back. “Who better than us to put some fighting spirit back into our captain?”

Moments later, they heard footsteps coming towards the door and ducked out of sight. There was a long-suffering sigh from within the changing room, which Fred figured would be Albus. Dragging Douglas by the sleeve, he made a dramatic entrance.

Albus jumped. “What are you two doing here?”

“Came for a bit of early morning practice,” Fred said. “Only, looks like you need it more than us.”

“No need to be so glum,” Douglas added.

“You guys don’t understand,” Albus said.

Fred and Douglas glanced at each other and rolled their eyes.

“It’s not just my dad,” Albus continued. “ _Everyone_ is invested in this season of Quidditch, for whatever reason. Dad says it’s because he wants me to end my seventh year with great memories other than studying for the N.E.W.T.s, but  it can’t _just_ be that, because it seems like every one of his friends, and I guess, not-friends, is getting in on it.”

“Maybe they have some sort of betting pool,” Fred mused.

“Nah,” Douglas said, “my dads would’ve told me if anything like that was happening, since usually they’re the ones starting it.”

“You know what I think it is,” Albus said forlornly, “I think they miss it. I think they’re all living vicariously through our generation.”

Fred and Douglas exchanged another look.

“Nah,” Douglas said again.

“Sounds stupid,” Fred said. “Come on, let’s hit the pitch and get some practice in before Ravenclaw show up!” 

Albus perked up a bit at that. “Well, if we _must_.”

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Lysander Scamander was convinced that he was the only sane person in perhaps the entire world. He had been raised in the sort of household that encouraged him to question everything, trust no-one, believe nothing except your own truth. It just so happened that his truth turned out a little different to his parents’ and his twin brother’s.

On days like today, the day of the first Quidditch match of the year, Lysander was inclined to take that conclusion a little further: his truth, his own fundamental concept of reality, was so far removed from that of everyone else in the Universe that it no longer made sense to anyone except himself.

“Taking down Gryffindor has to be _tactical_ ,” Michael Corner said, with the Ravenclaw Quidditch team gathered around him in their changing room. “Gryffindors are all, without exception, hot-headed and impulsive. They’ll do whatever it takes to win, which means we have to do whatever it takes to stop them.”

“My sister’s on their team,” Hugo Weasley pointed out.

“Makes no difference,” Michael said. “I dated your aunt when I was almost on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. You have to be able to put your personal connections aside for the sake of Quidditch.”

This was something Lysander knew well. His twin brother Lorcan played for Hufflepuff, and had hit many a Bludger against the name of family in his time. What Lysander was more concerned about was that Michael Corner _would not stop mentioning his teenage fling with Ginny Weasley_. It was starting to get a little uncomfortable for everyone, especially poor Hugo.

“Which brings me to today’s strategy,” Michael said.

Perhaps, Lysander thought, his Ravenclaw creativity might be better channeled in other directions.

“Gryffindor’s most problematic players are its chasers,” Michael said. “As such, Scamander, I want you to focus on marking Potter. Yaxley, you’re on Weasley, and Greengrass-Nott, you’re taking Thomas-Finnegan.”

“I don’t appreciate the double-barreled joke,” Anthea Greengrass-Nott muttered. Anthea always had an air of the gothic around her. Lysander was never quite sure when her vague, muttered threats were just for show and when they were deadly serious. He worried that this was one of the latter occasions.

Michael, of course, ignored her. “Entwhistle, Cornfoot, you two stick close to Potter too. If we throw him off, we’ll throw their entire team into disarray.”

“No-one asked for your opinion on the matter,” Dinah Entwhistle said.

“Well, _Dinah_ ,” Michael said, “your _father_ seemed to think I was qualified enough to coach your team this year.”

Of course, Dinah Entwhistle and Doris Cornfoot were both daughters of Michael’s roommates, and as such, got the worst of his attention because he saw fit to treat them like family. They were also two of the most sullen intellectuals in Ravenclaw tower, and Lysander thought almost daily about how unlucky he was to be the captain of their Quidditch team. Then again, it could be worse. Dinah could’ve been made captain.

“Moving on,” Michael said, “Weasley, Chang-Finch-Fletchley, you two just keep doing what you do best. Stop Gryffindor from getting any points, and catch the Snitch.”

Lian Chang-Finch-Fletchley, the youngest member of their team, was also the most enthusiastic. “Yes!” she said. “I will!”

“Now go out there and beat Gryffindor!” Michael finished.

He probably meant for his words to be met with a rousing cheer, but there were only a few mumbled sounds of agreement. Lysander held back a sigh. It would be a long match.

 

* * *

 

“There’s an air of lethargy in the air today, folks,” Mick Jordan said, his voice carrying across the Quidditch pitch. “The players have set off, but it doesn’t feel like their hearts are in it. Not yet, at least.”

In the stands, Ginny Weasley rolled her eyes. “Do you hear that, Harry? For all your encouragement, Albus is _less_ excited than last year.”

“Jordan’s a good kid, but he’s reading the atmosphere wrong,” Harry said. “This isn’t lethargy, not so early in a game. This looks more like anticipation to me.”

“Uh-huh,” Ginny said, humouring him while she got her Omnioculars out to zoom in on Albus. He was going after the Quaffle with a little bit less than his usual vigour. It was troubling, but not troubling enough for her to start moping around like Harry.

“See, Finnegan-Thomas is up to his usual business,” Harry said. “I think he’s going for a goal from below—poor Hugo.”

At that, Ginny turned away from the Omnioculars sharply. “ _Poor Hugo_? What happened to all your passion for Gryffindor?”

Harry had the decency to look a little embarrassed. “He’s family, Gin.”

“And—Weasley saves it!” Mick called. “Gryffindor had better get their act together.”

 

* * *

 

“Damn it,” Douglas swore, floating higher up as Weasley returned the Quaffle into play. That was 3-1 now, in Fred’s favour. And Albus hadn’t so much as scored any points yet. It was starting to get ridiculous.

Then again, Albus was remarkably off game today, and it didn’t help that he was being persistently marked by not only Lysander Scamander, but by Ravenclaw’s horrid beaters. Scamander was no rival for Albus as a chaser, but he was probably the _smartest_ player that Hogwarts had, and that scared Douglas a little bit. The idea of someone who got straight Os on his O.W.L.s _and_ could captain a Quidditch team like it was nothing was enough to put anyone off.

Anyone except a Gryffindor, of course, persistent to the last.

As soon as the Quaffle was flying again, Fred shot towards it, but Yaxley from Ravenclaw made a grab and sped towards the scoring area. Rose and Roxanne went after him, but Scamander and Greengrass-Nott flanked him, and Fred knew it was a foregone conclusion.

He could only watch weakly as Scamander took a hit from one of Rose’s best bludgers, but Cornfoot and Entwhistle knocked Roxanne out of the path, and Yaxley scored a solid goal right between little Jeremy’s arms.

 

* * *

 

Rose Weasley loved being a beater. When her friends asked her why, she’d say it was because it was the role she was best at in Quidditch, and when they asked why she loved Quidditch so much, she’d point to her father’s lifelong obsession with the game, to growing up in a Chudley Cannons household, and now, to being able to play along her best friend Albus in their final year of schooling.

Actually, what Rose loved _most_ about being a beater was the feeling of her bat colliding with a Bludger. She loved the sound, the recoil, the science behind the trajectories she could create.

This was a special match for Rose because, now that her cousin Roxanne Weasley had become a beater alongside her, this was the first match in all the time she’d been at Hogwarts where all four beaters were female. Roxanne was still lacking in experience, but her passion more than made up for it, especially when going against calculating beaters like Ravenclaw’s Cornfoot and Entwhistle.

Knocking Lysander Scamander off his broom was satisfying too—a dear friend, and a fine chaser, but he oughtn’t be a match for Gryffindor.

“Ravenclaw’s goal, but a striking move there from beater Rose Weasley!” Mick shouted. “Good on you, Rosie!”

Grinning, Rose shot up and after the bludger. “The first of many!” she shouted, her words lost on the wind, but it made her feel powerful nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

From behind Ginny, Hermione reached down to give her a gentle tap on the shoulder. “I hope you weren’t so busy arguing with Harry that you missed Rosie’s shot just then… ?”

Ginny gave her a positively venomous look. Hermione just smiled sweetly.

“Aren’t you worried, given that your daughter is on one team and your son’s on the other?” Ginny asked.

“Oh, not at all,” Hermione said blithely. “I think it’s wonderful that our children are able to foster interhouse co-operation despite being in this highly competitive environment.”

Of course, there was the unspoken undercurrent—what would change when Gryffindor played Hufflepuff, and Ginny’s kids were going against each other? Ginny didn’t like that undercurrent one bit.

“Can we at least agree,” she said, “that Gryffindor should win this match? After all, it’s Albus’ last year—”

“I’m afraid such sentimental arguments won’t work on me,” Hermione said.

“—and all the work Wood’s been putting in,” Ginny finished.

Hermione shook her head. “In the interests of equanimity, I’m not taking sides in this match.”

On the pitch, Albus threw a Quaffle towards the goalposts, and Hugo caught it square in his hands without even a fumble. In the stands, Ron rose to his feet and roared, “GO RAVENCLAW!”

Ginny and Hermione’s shoulders slumped with perfect synchronised timing.

 

* * *

 

“It’s not working,” Fred hissed, hovering beside Douglas as Albus recovered from Hugo Weasley’s spectacular catch. “Not even our friendly competition is getting him worked up.”

“Three-two-zero,” Douglas said. “He’s off form. If we must, we’ll score all the goals in this match and just hope Shavonne catches the Snitch.”

Fred pursed his lips in thought. “That won’t be good enough. Usually, Albus is our scoring machine. We need to get him back in play.”

“For now it looks like our best bet is seriously demoralising Ravenclaw,” Douglas said, “but that would require Jeremy to start doing a little better.”

“It’s all Wood’s pressure,” Fred said. “The poor kid’s scared shitless.”

Douglas grinned. “So, we can’t get our own chaser to score unless we break Ravenclaw’s morale, but we can’t stop their chasers from scoring unless our keeper steps it up. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Freddy?”

“I think I am, Dougie,” Fred said. He shot away again, coming to a stop alongside Rose.

 

* * *

 

It was 100-50 to Ravenclaw when Gryffindor began to turn the tides.

Rose had her instructions— _get Yaxley_. He was troublesome, too laid back and never drawing attention to himself. He usually got away with flying under the radar, but today was the day that ended.

The thing was, Yaxley never scored the most goals in a match. That was always Lysander, Ravenclaw’s golden boy. Lysander was far too logical, though. Rose had known him since before she could remember, and he was always very confused if things he couldn’t predict started happening. So by targeting Yaxley, Lysander would get confused, which would confuse Greengrass-Nott, which would throw the rest of the team into disarray.

It was a very simple strategy, but nevertheless Rose was impressed with Fred and Douglas for coming up with it. The next part of the plan, though, was all Rose’s.

With her brother Hugo between Gryffindor’s goalposts, Rose had a secret weapon. Hugo was a good keeper, but he was still a baby, and he'd still cry if Rose got hurt. Rose didn’t much like the idea of flying right into Cornfoot and Entwhistle’s line of fire, but if it got Hugo distracted, then a few bruises would be worth it.

“Roxie,” she called, “come over here! It’s time for some psychological warfare.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lysander Scamander was going mad. There was absolutely no other explanation for what was going on around him. His worldview had shifted so dramatically that it had now made contact with one of the astral planes Lorcan was always going on about, and then the astral plane had shattered and buried its fragments in Lysander’s mind.

Why else would Rose and Roxanne Weasley be zooming towards Dante Yaxley? Dante was the _least_ of their worries, with Lysander himself scoring the most of their points and Anthea gradually getting more and more threatening. Dante was practically harmless compared to Doris and Dinah, who were on Rose and Montgomery’s trail like bats out of hell.

“Rose, you masochist,” Lysander muttered, watching as Albus caught the Quaffle from Fred Weasley’s toss. Dinah and Doris must have been mad too, abandoning their mark on Albus in favour of tracking the Gryffindor beaters. Oh well—Michael’s instructions were probably useless anyway.

Lysander tore his eyes away from the impending bloodbath and flew after the Gryffindor chasers, aiming to intercept.

Behind him, he heard yelling.

 

* * *

 

“Foul!” Hermione shouted. “Surely that’s a foul of some sort!”

Hermione was wholly unconvinced by Rose throwing her a thumbs up as the referee blew the whistle. It had to be a foul. She didn’t remember Quidditch being this violent when she was at Hogwarts. There were never piles of beaters with bats flying everywhere and even the Bludger hovering to one side a little cautiously.

Of course, from where she was, Hermione couldn’t hear what the referee was saying, but even if she could it would’ve been drowned out by Ron.

“That’s my girl!” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Get ‘em, Rosie!”

“Ronald,” Hermione snapped. “This is not a moment for jubilance. She could have been seriously injured!”

“Right,” Ron said, “right, but come on, that was incredible! Don't you see what she's done?”

“Gone and got herself into trouble _again_ ,” Hermione said.

“No, no,” Ron said hastily, “that’s _strategy_.”

 

* * *

 

After that, things began to change. After Rose’s masterstroke, Gryffindor were inching ahead. For all Albus’ talk of strategy since the year began, Fred reckoned he really hadn't been pulling his weight in this match. Still, it was great to watch Albus gradually come back to himself as Lysander flew around in circles in confusion and Hugo noticeably fretted over Rose’s wellbeing.

But what Fred took the most pleasure in watching everyone in Ravenclaw working themselves into a frenzy over tactics, as they tended to do, and losing sight of the bigger picture. Of course, the game ended only when the Snitch was caught, and while everyone was focused on the chasers and the beaters, the seekers were free to do their own thing.

And Gryffindor had one _hell_ of a seeker.

So, while Roxanne chased Yaxley halfway across the pitch, Cornfoot and Entwhistle kept on at Rose who’d taken to marking Lysander who was bent on marking Albus and while they ran themselves into ragged circles, Ravenclaw’s seeker made a poor attempt at trying to catch up to Shavonne Davis as she sped towards the Golden Snitch.

It didn’t work.

 

* * *

 

“220-140 to Gryffindor,” Oliver Wood said, a tear in his eye. “I’m so proud of them. A victory worthy of the Gryffindor Quidditch team back in my day.”

“They did well,” Harry agreed, “but it was close. Oliver, wouldn’t you say… I mean, isn’t there something getting in the way of their motivation?”

Oliver sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, Harry, there’s always more work to be done. But one victory, and one like this to start the year, that should give them a boost.”

“You’re right,” Harry said, sounding heartened. “They’ll make it through the next two matches with no problems.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Ginny said, glancing over to where Ron and Hermione were fussing over Rose and Hugo. Pity they couldn’t keep their children as disciplined as they liked to tell everyone—Hugo seemed to take offence at Rose using his emotions as a Quidditch tactic, and it looked to Ginny as though Hermione was taking his side. Oh dear.

Harry nudged Ginny’s arm. “Come on, Gin,” he said, “we both know how tough it is having a kid on either side of the pitch.”

“We do,” Ginny said, and refused to elaborate.

“Well, at any rate, we’re lucky we’ve got Oliver helping the kids,” Harry said, as Oliver went off to congratulate Albus and the other Gryffindor chasers. “And Al has promised me he’s passing on a few tips to Lily to keep it fair—”

“He’s lying,” Ginny interrupted. “He’s got to be lying.”

“I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt,” Harry said.

Ginny followed Harry’s gaze to Oliver. “Wood’s competitiveness may be doing those kids more harm than good,” she said, “but at least he’s not as bad as whichever sod Ravenclaw’s enlisted to throw their tactics into shambles.”

Unfortunately for Ginny, the sod in question happened to be within earshot. (She’d been talking quite loudly, but of course, she would claim later that it was just her voice, and she most certainly shouldn’t be held to account for it.)

“What’d you say about me, Weasley?” Michael Corner asked, rounding on her and Harry.

“Nothing too bad,” Ginny said, “so don’t you worry. I’m sure your head is busy with thought of Ravenclaw’s loss, after all.”

Michael seemed to stand up a bit straighter at that. “Ravenclaw fought well and _honourably_ ,” he said.

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating,” Ginny said, “but then, you’ve always been a sore loser.”

“ _Me_ ,” Michael said putting a hand to his chest, “a _sore loser_?”

“I know, hard to believe,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes. “It’s just a pity this was our teams’ only match this season, because I’d like to see your precious Ravenclaw do any better, but you’ve already been taken down by the strongest side at Hogwarts so what’s the point, right?”

That did the trick. Even when they were dating back in her fourth year, Michael Corner had been easy to bait, and the _sorest_ of losers.

“Now you listen here, Weasley,” Michael began, “this year’s Ravenclaw is a strong side, and just because they’re more brains than brawn—”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, no,” Anthea said, glancing up from where she was casting her own healing spells on a Bludger-inflicted bruise on her forearm, “looks like our, uh, _coach_ is getting in a fight.”

“It’s my aunt,” Hugo said, finally having escaped his family’s clutches to rejoin his team. “With any luck, she’ll hex him ‘till he can’t coach anymore.”

“Wishful thinking,” Doris grumbled.

“I don’t know,” Anthea mused, “I might be able to arrange for something to happen.”

While his teammates chatted, Lysander was still coming to terms with the fact that he had been _outwitted_. By _Rose Weasley_. It was infuriating, although not entirely surprising. Perhaps he’d been relying on his natural wits and cleverness for too long—perhaps it was time he started to extend himself a bit.

“Lys?” Dinah prompted, jabbing him in the arm. “No closing remarks for a job well done?”

Lysander hummed. “Well, you all know you played well. But if even _Gryffindor_ are getting a little sneaky this season, then maybe it’s time we stepped it up a notch.”

Anthea was positively beaming. “Like what? Wands at the ready?”

“No, we’re not breaking the rules,” Lysander said, watching Anthea’s face fall. “I think we need to start reading up on the rules. Our next opponents will be Slytherin, and you _know_ they play dirty. I mean, we’ll see them against Hufflepuff at the end of the month and gauge from there, but maybe now’s a good time to hit the books as well as the pitch.”

“Restricted Section: yes or no?” Dante asked.

Lysander narrowed his mouth into a line and squared his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Then I’m in,” Dante said.

One by one, the team indicated their agreement. Lian was last, but only because she was the youngest and therefore least likely to get access to the Restricted Section. This was a long-running problem for Ravenclaws. The prefects assured everyone they were working on it, but nothing had happened yet.

Before Lysander could deliver the closing remarks to what would no doubt have been a very rousing speech, there was a voice from the back of the crowd.

“But you know why it happened, don’t you?”

Lysander turned around to see his mother and father, arm-in-arm and walking towards where the team was clustered.

“That’s right,” his mother said, “Nargles.”

His father nodded solemnly. Lysander held back the urge to scream.

“You’ve been keeping up with the Quibbler, haven’t you?” Rolf Scamander asked his son.

“Yes, dad,” Lysander lied. Actually, he’d been keeping up mainly with the Wixenomist, but that was neither here nor there.

“Good, good,” Rolf said, nodding in approval as Luna wandered off to diffuse the situation between Michael Corner and Ginny Weasley. “And you’ll make sure to watch out for Wrackspurts too, in your next match.”

Lysander bit back a sigh. “Yes, I will.”

 

* * *

 

Jeremy Brown was exhausted. Even though his team had won, Ravenclaw’s chasers were something else. He hadn’t done as well as he could’ve, even a fool could pick up on that, but the crushing weight of expectation was enough to tell him that he’d never live up to it.

Next time, maybe.

“Jeremy!”

Jumping, he scooted out of the way as Oliver Wood came up to him.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your first official match as keeper for Gryffindor,” Oliver said. “My first match was in second year too. It’s tricky, but you’ve just got to… _keep_ at it, you know?”

As Wood patted Jeremy on the back and walked away, Jeremy was left stunned, staring after him. “Did he just,” he thought aloud, mouth hanging open, “try to reassure me with a pun?”


	3. Chapter 3

Some meetings are pencilled into a diary, others written on a calendar on the wall. Some are planned for months before they occur, others are last-minute, spur-of-the-moment, with neither an agenda nor recorded minutes to tell the world they ever occurred.

Some meetings, however, technically never happen at all.

Anthony supposed this whole nonsense could have been spared if his colleagues were more competent. Although, could he really call them colleagues? As close as his ties with the Ministry would always be, his own job remained a startlingly different kettle of fish.

He felt like, by now, he’d have outgrown sneaking around—it was a long time since his last officially unscheduled meeting, a long time since he’d taken the backroads to a Muggle café in a part of town where no-one would look twice at a tallish person in very average clothes. Of course, the moment the thought passed through his mind, his eyes settled on a taller person in very strange clothes, with a shock of red hair to boot. There were no passing Muggles gawking at him, though. Must have been a disillusionment charm. Percy Weasley never was fond of how he stuck out in a crowd.

“Ah, Anthony,” Percy greeted, looking hurriedly up from his newspaper. “I’m afraid I don’t have long—”

“Understandable,” Anthony said, waving a hand as he pulled out the chair opposite Percy.

They’d chosen to meet at a pokey café out west, only two small, round tables sitting on the pavement, and a makeshift lounge inside. It was a bit nippy, but Percy didn’t seem bothered. Anthony would have preferred to sit inside, but there was something to be said for hiding in plain sight.

For a few moments, Percy said nothing, looking at Anthony from across his sloppily-folded copy of the Daily Prophet. Up close, Anthony could see that Percy’s hair was beginning to take on grey tones, and that his coffee was going cold.

“Well?” Anthony prompted.

Percy cleared his throat. “Well. Yes,” he said. “Sorry, I’m a bit all over the place today. But listen—you know I had nothing to do with this, don’t you?”

Anthony raised an eyebrow. It was a difficult skill, to raise one at a time, but lately he’d been practicing. All part of the job. “Do I?”

“Do you indeed,” Percy muttered, folding the Prophet in half again and laying it flat on the table. “As much as I hate to lay the blame on a friend, it did start with Oliver’s, uh, _misguided_ Quidditch enthusiasm. You know how he can be.”

“You keep saying I know things,” Anthony said. “Why don’t we stop tiptoeing around what I _know_ and _don’t know_ and get to the point?”

Flattening his mouth into a line, Percy nodded. “I don’t know exactly _how_ it started—Oliver gets calls all the time, though, gets all sorts trying to get close to him, cut a deal. He turns down the promotional stuff—like posing in the buff for Witch Weekly, or whatever it is they’re doing these days—but he’s ever too keen when it comes down to Quidditch.”

“So he was convinced to lobby for this?” Anthony asked.

“Precisely,” Percy said. His voice had gone sour, like a foul smell grew with each reluctantly-spoken word. “I told him that just because an amiable Russian leaves him with a promise, doesn’t mean they’re _actually_ going to follow through. I swear, he’ll drive me to an early grave with his wilful optimism.”

Anthony sighed. “And that’s all you know?”

“I know that Oliver’s involvement in this whole _scandal_ is nothing so much as—” he paused, picking up the newspaper with whitening knuckles, “— _this_ rag is making it out to be.”

“That’s one item off my list, then,” Anthony says drily. “Nothing that could possibly make this easier?”

“If only,” Percy said. “You’ll have to go headfirst into this, as your lot tend to do.”

“Hold on a minute,” Anthony said, “I hardly think _your lot_ have any right to generalise about _my_ lot.”

Percy’s smile in response was all too cocky for Anthony’s liking. “My lot aren’t the lot responsible for stopping the Russians from planting a flag in British soil.”

His slightly off-putting imperialism aside—and where did that even come from?—Anthony knew Percy had a point. It was his department’s job to manage foreign relations, to keep the numerous irons in the Ministry’s fire from reaching melting point and blurring together in one big, molten catastrophe. If the Ministry cocked up on an international level, Anthony and his colleagues would self-flagellate in the line of duty. Their bosses and their bosses’ bosses would make the appropriate funding cuts, the necessary restructurings, and although the press would report on the Ministry’s failings, it would be MI7 who knew they weren’t working hard enough.

_All part of the job_ , Anthony thought drily.

“So what are _your lot_ going to do about it?” Percy asked.

Anthony didn’t get this high up the barbed wire ladder of internal politics without knowing how to bullshit an answer. Placating grin on his face, he was ready to deliver a consoling lie; something to tide the Ministry over until shit _really_ hit the fan. Both Anthony and Percy would know it was a lie, but of course, that was never the point.

Thankfully for Anthony’s frayed moral conscience, he was interrupted before he could start by a voice coming from his coat pocket. “Tell me you’re not busy, Ant.”

“Excuse me one moment,” Anthony said, retrieving one-third of a circular mirror from his pocket. In the mirror was Michael Corner’s face, but what Anthony saw was _trouble_.

Percy frowned. “Duty calls?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” Anthony said, getting to his feet. He knew he wasn’t doing himself any favours with the Ministry, brushing Percy off so brusquely, but considering his entire department was almost permanently in the Ministry’s bad books, Anthony considered it a success that he was only now digging his own grave and carving his own tombstone. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

“I have no doubt you will be,” Percy said.

With a crack, Anthony Disapparated away from the café and landed outside a no-name warehouse in South-East London. It had a corrugated iron rolling door set into a red brick wall, designed specifically to be as uninteresting as possible.

Anthony lifted the mirror to his face. “I’m outside.”

The rolling door shuddered open, slowly creaking its way up from the ground, and Anthony ducked under as soon as it was high enough. There were a couple of staircases up until he reached an office with a simple sign on the door: _Michael Corner, Entrepreneur_. Anthony didn’t knock before pressing in.

“Ant,” Michael said, relief plain on his face as he rose from his desk, “glad you could make it.”

“Don’t talk to me like you’re inviting me in for tea,” Anthony said. “Anyway, when are you going to move out of these digs? The staircase smells like there’s something fermenting on it.”

“All part of the illusion,” Michael said, affecting the air of mystery that Anthony had known was bullshit since a few weeks into their first year at Hogwarts. “Take a seat. _Can_ I get you tea?”

“I’ll pass,” Anthony said, pulling out the chair opposite Michael’s.

Michael took a deep breath, sitting back down behind his desk. “So I’ve got a bit of a problem—”

“Oh no you don’t,” Anthony interrupted. “I’m not your babysitter anymore, Michael.”

“Just hear me out—”

“My own _daughter_ doesn’t even ask me for life advice anymore,” Anthony continued. “These days she just wanders around with her head in a book asking Camus what he would do.”

“What _would_ Camus do?” Michael asked.

Anthony pursed his lips. “He’d probably laugh it off. Or ask Terry for help instead.”

“Terry’s not talking to me until next week,” Michael said. “It’s a long story.”

“Anyone would think you two are still at Hogwarts,” Anthony said. “See, this is what happens when you don’t get a proper job.”

Anthony knew he’d hit a sore spot there, because Michael was firmly convinced of the legitimacy of his Definitely-Not-Ponzi schemes, but he needed to be poked and prodded a bit before he’d talk sense.

“I can’t ask Terry, anyway,” Michael said. “You’re the one who always deals with Russians.”

“Why am I not surprised that there are Russians involved,” Anthony said. “Everything is the Russians today.”

“You’d think it was the Cold War again,” Michael said, lighthearted. His attempt ease the tone of their conversation fell flat.

Anthony sighed. “Well, I can’t help you unless you tell me what I’m helping you with.”

“Sure I can’t tempt you with some tea?” Michael asked, pulling his chair back and making like he was about to stand. “We’ve got earl grey in the kitchenette.”

“Sit down, Michael,” Anthony said, “and tell me what happened.”

Michael guiltily shuffled his chair forwards again. He was like a troublesome child—Honoria was never this much of a handful, not even when she went through her nihilist phase. When Anthony reflected that his job mainly consisted of babysitting diplomats, and occasionally his friends, he felt a bit like a professor at Hogwarts, teaching Care of International Secrets, or Defence Against the Gossip Column, or overseeing detention. Michael was the wayward student, and Anthony was there to mete out punishment. He’d long since stopped feeling bad about it.

“Alright,” Michael said slowly. “So here’s how it started—”


	4. Chapter 4

> **TUNDRA TIMES AT FLOREAN FORTESCUE**
> 
> Things just can’t get hot enough for the dream team, spotted yesterday afternoon having ice creams at Fortescue’s – and fighting over last week’s Hufflepuff-Slytherin match. The argument between our favourite Minister and his muckraking hack husband, Zacharias Smith, got quite heated before Mr Smith smeared his non-fair-trade ice cream all over Minister Finch-Fletchley’s face and hastily left the establishment without paying the bill. We can only assume he meant to cool his husband down, though judging by Minister Finch-Fletchley’s ensuing screams, this plan of his crashed and burned spectacularly.

From: _W!_ 26 November 2023

* * *

It was his dad’s fault.

Not that it wasn’t always Draco Malfoy’s fault, but this time it was _more_ of his fault than usual. After six years of carefully treading around his father’s thirty-five year old ( _thirty-two, Scorpius, you’re never going to get anywhere if you go around being wildly wrong_ ) grudge against Harry James Potter, he’d fancied that maybe _this_ year, he’d be allowed to relax and possibly also study for his NEWTs. NEWTs, as he understood, were extremely important if one wanted to get anywhere in the wizarding world. And Scorpius, like all his Slytherin kin, very much intended on getting Somewhere in the wizarding world, even if he wasn’t quite sure _where_ yet.

Draco Malfoy, unfortunately, appeared to have missed that particular memo. Instead, he had employed a lawyer – a man, he assured Scorpius, who was very well acquainted with the ins and outs of Quidditch and Wizengamot law – and written to inform Scorpius about this on his second day back at Hogwarts. There was a hastily scribbled addendum adjuring Scorpius to “study for his NEWTs as well”, which Scorpius imagined must have been his mother’s doing, but it was somewhat undermined by Draco’s offer to sue anyone if they said anything, followed by a peremptory command to “make Slytherin proud at all costs”. On its own, it was a harmless letter and if Scorpius had been lucky, he might have simply replied to it with something vague and non-binding and life would have proceeded as usual.

Unfortunately for him, one of the Goyle twins got hold of the letter and then Lucy Weasley, surprised to see Freddie Goyle reading, grabbed the letter from him and read it to see what had grabbed Goyle’s attention. In a matter of minutes, the news was all over the common room and Scorpius found himself swamped by his teammates, all asking him the same question: well, what are you going to do about it?

Scorpius, ideally, would have not liked to do anything about it at all. This was all to do with that stupid Parkinson garden show and the winning display (Malfoy, obviously) and accusations of cheating. It was a grown-up matter. It was not his business.

But his team was in high spirits and now, with express permission from Draco Malfoy to do as they pleased as long as they won, they forced Scorpius’ hand and set about arranging matters for him.

Juno Flint, for one, peremptorily summoned her uncle Marcus from whatever job it was he did down in London, specifically to train them in barely legal Quidditch manoeuvres and the art of Quidditch specific chicanery. Her reasoning was flawless: _if Gryffindor could have Oliver Wood, they could have Marcus Flint_. It was not the sort of logic Scorpius could argue with.

Their only Weasley, Lucy, had somehow adopted Wood’s fanatical approach to Quidditch practices - probably the result of too many childhood reminiscences on the part of her father, Percy Weasley - and scheduled practices for five in the morning.

(“Now look here,” she had said, pointing firmly at an elaborate and bewildering chart, “We’re all Slytherins, right?”

It was her favourite catchphrase, something to do with her family and being the only Slytherin Weasley. Or at least, that was what Scorpius thought.  

“Well,” she had said, cutting to the chase once Scorpius had looked around carefully and agreed that yes, they were all Slytherins, “You know the saying: finder’s keepers.”

“Hang on,” Scorpius had said, suddenly attentive, “I’ve never heard that one.”

“It means,” she had explained, with a roll of her eyes, “That if we get there first we get to keep the field for as long as we want -”

And Scorpius had ignored everything she said about strategy after that in favour of adding ‘finder’s keepers’ to a page neatly titled ‘muggle sayings’, along with a little sketch of her, in a little leather notebook he carried around with him for noting down ‘muggleisms’. One day he was going to present it to Lucy Weasley as conclusive proof that he was not entirely a frivolous arse and that he liked muggle things and that he always paid attention to what she said. It was all part of his grand plan to woo Lucy Weasley without resorting to commonplaces like flowers and chocolates. Quidditch strategy, in his opinion, could always be decided on later.)

He did put his foot down firmly when it came to four AM practices though. He even managed to hold his resolve in the face of Lucy’s best pout, which he felt deserved some acknowledgement. It was not easy to stand firm while feeling like a monstrous brute. It was proof that he could be strong-willed if he wanted to, contrary to whatever his great-aunt and grandmother thought of him. He wrote them a letter telling them as much.

Goyle and Goyle, who were not very smart and knew it, decided to stick to what they knew and work on perfecting it. They channelled all their creativity and intelligence into discovering how to foul without being caught. Eustace had even memorized all of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ in the name of maintaining plausible deniability and Eustace _never_ memorized _anything_. This was nowhere near as terrifying as Ariadne Greengrass-Nott who knew every single gameplay, every single match and the history of every singled Quidditch team. But then, she _was_ Scorpius’ unofficial ADC and the Goyle twins weren’t.

There had been rumours of nepotism once, when Scorpius  had taken young Ariadne under his wing and used her as a sort of Quidditch crutch; she vetted their strategies and provided a veritable fount of information that kept them all afloat, he provided the moolah and played the role of captain with his dashing good looks. A sex symbol, as Juno Flint had once put it baldly. He had nipped those rumours quickly in the bud by quietly pointing out that if he _was_ a nepotist, he’d have hardly included a Weasley and the Smith-Finch-Fletchley girl on the team now, would he? Held up against the Gryffindor team - almost entirely all Weasley - his critics were forced to admit that the Slytherin team even came close to being run entirely on merit and Scorpius happily kept his godsister on as his strategist and aide-de-camp, allowing her terrifying Quidditch fanaticism to run wild and keep them all functioning.

They were all terrifying in their own right, but none of them were as utterly terrifying as Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley.

Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley was fifteen years old and was convinced that it was her destiny to terrorize the wizarding world. Her sister, Michal, was a Chaser for Hufflepuff and the exact opposite of Ruth in temperament. She was a poster child for Hufflepuff, just like her father, Justin. Ruth, a firm believer in the conservation of effort, had decided that it was best to skip all the hard work and cooked up a scheme to spy on the Hufflepuffs and get hold of all their strategy, by making use of her sister and her father’s naivete. This scheme involved writing to Justin, demanding to know how her sister was because “Michal ignores me at school and I’m _worried_ for her papa”. He would then write to Michal, so she said, and Michal would write back to him and Justin, being Justin, would then tell her everything there was to know about what Michal was doing. There was nothing, as she put it, that could go wrong.

The scheme had worked. For a while. Justin Finch-Fletchley and Michal Smith-Finch-Fletchley, both sincere believers in the inherent goodness of humanity, had unsuspectingly passed all of Hufflepuff’s Quidditch strategies to Slytherin until, by chance, Zacharias Smith happened to open one of Ruth’s letters to Justin. The rest of the details were unclear to Scorpius but the consequences had involved one very animated howler from Zacharias Smith, in which he lectured Ruth on the virtues of honesty, hard work and fair play and then told her she would write to _him_ and _him alone_ from now on; a kick in the shins from Michal Smith-Finch-Fletchley (which was unfair, Scorpius thought, since Ruth had concocted that scheme entirely on her own) and a challenge to a wizard’s duel by a very purple-faced Cedric Cadwallader.

In retrospect, maybe telling Cedric that purple was a nice shade on him had been the wrong thing to say. The Draco Malfoy thing to say. Scorpius had spent long hours perfecting this art - his only contribution to the Quidditch-fever gripping Slytherin.

His father, Scorpius reflected, would have been proud of him.

* * *

Down in Hufflepuff they had a different kind of enthusiasm to deal with. A more _contradictory_ enthusiasm.

“Slytherin is out to kill,” said Zacharias Smith, “You need to slaughter them before they slaughter you -”

“But don’t forget,” said Ernie Macmillan, “Fair play, even against your Slytherin rivals, is always important.”

“But you have to remember, Slytherin won’t give you that grace, so it might be in your best interest to use their own schemes against them.”

“Honesty,” said Ernie Macmillan, “And hard work, will win the day. Cheating may prove tempting, but you must rise above the temptation to stoop down to their level -”

“Oh shut up,” snapped Zacharias, “You’ve never played a bloody game of Quidditch in your entire life, you don’t know _shite_ about what you should and shouldn’t do on the Quidditch pitch -”

“I’m not the one who lost every single match while captaining the Quidditch team,” said Ernie.

“Wanker -”

“Bastard -”

“Look,” said Gabriel Truman quietly, as the two men bickered away over who had the right to influence the Hufflepuff team the most; the former Quidditch captain or the team funds, “Ignore them. Take the fancy robes and brooms, don’t take their advice.”

Cedric Cadwallader looked at the two quarrelling men doubtfully. Ernie Macmillan _had_ given them extra-light, aerodynamically designed robes and fifth generation Firebolts - all because of his bet with Corner. On the other hand, he _did_ have funny ideas about fair play that Smith had a much more reasonable view on. On the third hand, maybe Truman who was older and therefore, probably wiser  than Smith and Macmillan, knew what was what.

“Also,” added Truman, “Please don’t fight the Slytherin boy.”

“They’ll never learn if you don’t fight them,” said Zacharias, overhearing this, “You must fight him -”

“If you _are_ going to fight him,” said Ernie, “You must abide by the Code -”

“Fuck the Code,” said Zacharias, “You’ve got to win -”

“Says the man who ran away from the only fight he ever had-”

“ _Fucker_ -”

Cedric stared at his shoelaces, ground into the mud and wished he too could be a part of the ground.

* * *

It was match day and Scorpius was bored out of his mind as his father imparted some last minute words of wisdom and encouragement.

“Not that we’re the sort of people who _care_ about these things, but it’s Hufflepuff,” Draco was saying, “And we’re Malfoys – I’d be embarrassed if I lost to Hufflepuff – not that I’m saying that _you_ should be embarrassed, but you _are_ a Malfoy, the two-hundred and fifty-fifth of your name, all sorted into Slytherin – we have _standards_ –“

And so on and so forth in the same vein. Scorpius contemplated pointing out that he was only the _one-_ hundredand fifty-fifth of their name, which diminished his responsibility to the family name by a third and facts like that were Important, but then thought better of it. Pointing it out would have meant, listening to another rant about the Weasleys because, as everyone knew, every single misfortune that had befallen the Malfoy family were directly attributable to the Weasleys.

He wondered if his father would consider Lucy Weasley a similar misfortune. He wondered how Percy Weasley and his offspring would be classed in relation to other Weasleys.

“ – _Not_ that there _aren’t_ nice Hufflepuffs,” Draco continued, blithely oblivious to the fact that his son was no longer paying attention to him, but silently contemplating the enigma of Percy Weasley, “But it’s just that there’s some pathetic quality about them that makes them inherently terrible – look at Macmillan and Smith, for example.”

This remark, however, did catch Scorpius’ attention.

“Father you do remember that one of my team-mates happens to be Smith’s eldest daughter?” Scorpius asked Draco curiously.

“Yes and it’s Finch-Fletchley who’ll be cheering for her,” Draco replied serenely, “I always did think the man had a lot of sense for a Hufflepuff.”

Scorpius wisely decided, yet again, not to contradict his father. He could leave that one to Ruth to sort out for herself.

* * *

“I still think you’re making a big mistake,” said Zacharias stubbornly as they found seats for themselves in the section of the stands an exasperated Neville had sectioned off for the various parents who wished to cheer their offspring on as they played Quidditch this year.

Justin tugged at the green and silver scarf he’d donned for the occasion, “Really Zach,” he said mildly, “Don’t you think you’re making a big deal out of this? It’s only a game and they’re just children.”

“Just a _game_ ,” Zacharias glared at his husband. If he had had a bosom, Justin fancied, it would have heaved with righteous indignation. “Anyway it was Malfoy who started it.”

“Yes dear. I still think it’s wrong of you to refuse to support Ruth on the principle of her being a Slytherin.”

“Ha,” said Zacharias darkly, “Between you and Mafalda encouraging her in her Slytherin-y ways she’ll be sent to Azkaban before she leaves Hogwarts. Anyway, can you believe that _wanker_ Macmillan? The _audacity_ – giving the team Quidditch advice – he’s never played Quidditch in his entire life, but _no,_ we are the Gr-r-reat Macmillans,” he slipped into a mock Scottish brogue, “And we have nine centuries of history behind us, therefore I can tell you how to do literally anything better even though I have no bloody clue how things work – ”

Justin patted Zacharias’ arm comfortingly, “He’s only trying to help.”

“Some help he is,” Zacharias snorted, “The way he swans about, you’d think he was personally responsible for founding Hufflepuff –“

“Oh look, the teams,” said Justin, neatly cutting his husband off before he launched into a detailed explanation of the Smith family genealogy, “Doesn’t Ruth look terribly fierce?”

“I think Michal looks much better,” said Zacharias loyally as they both stood up to cheer the teams.

Justin rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the match.

* * *

“All right look,” said Cedric Cadwallader, “Just – just ignore everything that Macmillan and Smith have said, yeah?”

He looked around at all of them – Lorcan’s dreamy expression out of place amongst the serious and determined faces all around him. They were a good bunch of kids. They played together like a team and they worked their arses off. It just wasn’t _fair_ that Slytherin was thick with cheats and backstabbers - it wasn’t _fair_ to these kids, when they’d worked so hard and all that hard work chucked out the window because of Slytherin was full of compulsive spies and cheats.

“They may know most of our strategies,” he said, calmly, “But we’re Hufflepuffs and we won’t go down without a fight.”

With that, he nodded grimly at his fellow team-mates, mounted his broomstick and flew on to the pitch.

* * *

“If you’re going to cheat,” said Scorpius, “ _at least_ maintain _some_ amount of plausible deniability, all right?”

The sickly sweet smiles on his fellow team-mates faces were really _not_ the most heartening thing he’d ever seen.

But then, neither was the mysterious drink Lucy Weasley had forced down his throat that morning.

* * *

Cedric Cadwallader seethed. He seethed with the righteous fury of ten centuries of Welshmen confounded and infuriated by the depths of villainy to which the English could stoop. He seethed, because that was what Hufflepuffs did in the face of grave injustice on the Quidditch pitch.

“It’s a foul,” he persisted doggedly, polite as ever, “You can’t kick the Quaffle out of someone’s hands.”

“It’s not a foul,” said Scorpius, as though he was talking to a very small child, “It’s a perfectly legitimate form of tackling and was first introduced to the sport in a match between the Banchory Bangers and the Caerphilly Catapults in 1643.”

“The Bangers were disbanded,” said Lorcan dreamily, “They tried to capture a dragon – I’d like that, wouldn’t you Cedders?”

“Ariadne?” said Scorpius, hastily cutting Cedric off before he could say anything.

“It was later popularized by the Berliner Blackbirds,” Ariadne Greengrass-Nott said dutifully, “And is now a common move in the Quidditch Bundesliga.”

Cedric glared at the two of them. Scorpius smiled blandly in return.

“The screaming –“

“Also not a foul,” said Scorpius, “First used in 1789 by the uh Borodin –“

“Belgorod,” Ariadne muttered under her breath

“Belgorod Banshees,” he continued, “In a match against the Galichan –“

“Galichskoye Gumayuns,” Ariadne rolled her eyes, “And the referee ruled that it was legitimate and since then the act of rushing up behind an opponent and screaming in their ear has become the signature move of the Belgorod Banshees.”

“It’s a _bloody_ foul is what it is,” Cedric cried, attempting to lunge at Scorpius.

“Fighting,” said Lorcan, throwing his arms around Cedric’s waist, wobbling precariously on his broom as he did so, “Is bad for your soul.”

“And you’re not Banshees,” Cedric continued, ignoring Lorcan, “It’s a foul –tell them sir –“

“It’s not a foul, Cadwallader, show some respect for the sport’s fine history –“

“Fine history my _sodding arse,_ you fucking cheats –“

“The snakes are at it again,” Mick Jordan’s voice bellowed over the Quidditch stands, “Will the ref stand his ground or will he give in yet again and let those vipers get away with bloody murder?”

Once upon a time, a naïve and pudding-faced Cassidy Davies had imagined, romantically, that refereeing at Hogwarts would be a pleasant job. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself gently chastening errant young Quidditch aspirants and enjoying lazy flights over the Quidditch pitch of his youth, all for a very pleasant fee. He had imagined that this would save him from the stresses of professional Quidditch, a sport where referees were liable to disappear or be hacked to death by swords or end up stranded in the Sahara, depending on how vicious the matches were. This image, he now realized, was wrong. Professional Quidditch, he thought, would have been a delight compared to this.

“The referee seems to have trouble making up his mind about whether or not those slimy gits are cheating or not. Is it time for us to get ourselves a new referee? I think it is. Preferably a referee with a spine. Grow a pair, Davies – Sorry, Professor Longbottom but it’s the _truth_ –“

The crowd roared. Cedric Cadwallader turned a deeper and more fanciful shade of purple. Scorpius Malfoy smirked.

Cassidy Davies closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

* * *

“ _No_ ,” hissed Justin, grabbing Zacharias’ arm and forcing him to sit down, “ _Behave_.”

“Let me go,” Zacharias pried himself free of Justin’s grip, “Have you no sense of Hufflepuff pride?”

“ _Sit down!_ ” said Justin, “Bloody hell, Zach, why can’t you behave just _once_ –“

“You’re making a big deal of nothing – _ow_ ,” he looked at Justin, aggrieved, “You _pinched me_!”

“You deserved it,” said Justin, pursing his lips primly.

Zacharias glared at his husband and then stood up.

“If you go,” said Justin, warningly, “I won’t speak to you when you come back. _And_ you won’t get anything but spinach for a month.”

“Watch me,” he told Justin.

* * *

“Anyway,” said Draco, somewhat highhandedly, “We’re all agreed, aren’t we, that Mr Scamander is a violent freak who really mustn’t be allowed on the field and that Miss Flint deserves a penalty for the pain caused to her person by his actions – a fair compromise, I think, don’t you?”

Lorcan Scamander did not look very bothered by this slight to his character.

“ _Sir_ ,” Cedric Cadwallader appealed, but with considerably less conviction in his voice than there had been the five times previously.

“I break my fingernails _all_ the time,” said Lily Luna Potter, loyally standing by her captain, “ _I_ don’t go around crying about it.”

Draco eyed her with disfavor, “I don’t expect a _Potter_ to understand the intricacies or the importance of personal grooming, Mr Davies, if you please –“

Cassidy Davies sighed, “Penalty to Slytherin.”

* * *

Harry Selwyn gripped his broom firmly and grit his jaw. This time, he swore to himself, Slytherin would not get the Quaffle past him.

Concentrating was difficult, though. Concentrating was impossible, in fact, on a day like this with the sun shining and a pleasant smell of wild roses and raspberry wafting through the air – his favourite smell in the whole wide world – and the world pleasantly warm and sleepy and Juno Flint’s smile so very enticing –

“ _Harry_ ,” Genevieve Frobisher’s voice sliced rudely through his reverie, “Oh _Harry_.”

He looked sadly at the Quaffle plummeting towards the ground on the other side of the hoops.

“Oh,” he said, and then seeing Cedric’s face, hastily added, “Sorry.”

* * *

Zacharias examined the array of Cleansweeps and ancient Nimbuses with exasperation before selecting a sad old Nimbus 2001.

“Better than nothing,” he muttered, eyeing it suspiciously as though it would bite him or make him burst into flames. When it did neither, he left the broomshed and headed towards the Quidditch pitch.

* * *

Justin buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“Why,” he moaned to no one in particular, “Does he always do this to me?”

* * *

“Slytherin presses for yet another penalty after Potter tackles Smith-Finch-Fletchley for the Quaffle. Is anyone surprised? Not me, not when Hufflepuff scored yet another ten points only minutes earlier. Slytherin’s gameplay is blatantly obvious and disgusting to any right-minded human being so we can only assume that Mr Davies is _wrong_ – sorry Professor Longbottom – Mr Davies is a _good_ man, _bullied_ by those nasty snakes and that scummy old ferret Mr Malfoy – did you know he bought the entire team fifth generation Firebolts, it’s disgusting and corruption at its _worst._ Even the Russians can’t match Mr Malfoy’s corrupt ways and you can’t sue me for that Mr Malfoy, because I’m underage – sorry Professor Longbottom, but it’s _true_ – _And finally a champion for the beleaguered badgers –“_

“What,” demanded Zacharias Smith, tuning out Mick Jordan’s excitable and prejudiced commentary, “Is going on?”

Draco Malfoy’s voice drowned out the chorus of voices that rose to explain just what was going on.

“There’s no need for you to worry, Smith,” he said, “Just a little matter of a foul against Miss Smith-Finch-Fletchley –“

“He says its Werfling,” Lily cried indignantly, “It’s complete rubbish is what it is.”

“Werfles,” said Lorcan Scamander, “Live in the Antarctic anyway.”

“Werfling,” Zacharias repeated, perplexed, “Where did you get _that_ from?”

“Well I don’t expect _you_ to know, _Smith_ ,” said Draco, “Not _everyone_ can get their hands on FIQA’s fiftieth edition of their Quidditch Rules and Regulations handbook.”

“No one’s allowed to read those handbooks unless they’re registered referees,” Cassidy Davies said, very quietly.

Draco waved his hand airily, “You’re only small fry,” he told the man, not unkindly, “You wouldn’t know.”

Zacharias grinned in a manner that could only be best described as wickedly gleeful.

“Well well,” he said, “FIQA Corruption Taints Britain’s Pureblood Darlings – catchy headline isn’t it? Or should I put it the other way around – Rampant Corruption Among Britain’s Elite Taints International Quidditch Organization? Is This The End Of Quidditch As We Know It?“

“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco replied stiffly, “It’s all perfectly legal.”

By now, all the Hufflepuff and Slytherin players had clustered around the referee and the two men and were listening in with baited breath.

“That’s not what my dad says,” said Marya Krum, Hufflepuff’s fourteen year old seeker, “He says that handbook leaks are giving players all kinds of ideas for new fouls.”

The Hufflepuff Quidditch team glared, as a collective, at the Slytherins. Scorpius simply shrugged carelessly in response.

“It’s _hardly_ a leak,” said Draco, “If the handbook’s given to you by the _head_ of the organization –“

“He also says,” Marya continued firmly, “That it’s people like you who are responsible for ruining the sport. Ask him.”

Draco’s eyes flitted to the stern figure of Viktor Krum, currently listening to something his wife was saying.

“Yes, _Malfoy_ ,” Zacharias said with malice, “Let’s ask the _real_ Quidditch professional about Werfling, shall we?”

Draco smiled with the casual Malfoy arrogance.

“My lawyer will hear about this,” he told Zacharias.

Zacharias raised a single eyebrow, “Tell them to talk it over with my lawyers – who, by the way, also _happen_ to be the legal representatives for _The Wixenomist_. Think it over. Don’t do anything hasty.”

“It’s very good advice,” Draco’s lawyer murmured in Draco’s ear.

Draco glared at him and then at Zacharias.

“It’s only a petty foul,” he said, “Correct?”

Zacharias smiled serenely, “Exactly.”

* * *

The score stood at seventy to two hundred and ten when Marya Krum spotted the snitch, glinting in the sunlight, just above the Slytherin Keeper’s head. Lucy Weasley was far too intent on the criss-cross of the Quaffle, as it passed up and down the field between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin chasers, to notice the snitch hovering so close by. Marya casually glanced over at Scorpius to see if he’d noticed the snitch as well, but he, like Lucy, was far too focused on the trio of Slytherin chasers to have spotted the Snitch.

She could, she reflected, go for the kill. Or she could take a leaf out of Slytherin’s book.

Marya let her broom sink lower and lower, until she was only a few feet from the ground. She skimmed lazily along the ground, until she was almost directly below Lucy Weasley. Ascertaining that the snitch was still where it was, she glanced towards the stands where her father was watching her, a slight smile playing on his lips.

Marya pulled her broom up and shot upwards.

There was a simple principle to flying, her father had once told her. _What goes up, must come down_.

“It is true,” he’d said meaningfully, “Of _everything_.”

As Marya Krum shot up towards the Snitch, the Snitch shot upwards into the sky and Marya smiled to herself.

“ _Scorpius_ ,” she heard Lucy squealing, as though in the distance. From the corner of her eyes, she spotted the flapping of green robes with silver trimming. Scorpius Malfoy was now on her tail.

Marya laughed, leaned against her broom and followed the Snitch as it aimed, it seemed, straight for the sun.

* * *

“Bloody _hell_ ,” said Lily Potter, with fervent admiration.

“Flying,” said Lorcan wisely, casually aiming a Bludger in the general direction of Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley, while watching Marya Krum shoot into the sky, “Always the solution.”

“ _Scorpius you daft twit_ ,” cried Lucy Weasley, dangling awkwardly from her broom.

“Mental,” was Eustace Goyle’s verdict.

* * *

For a moment the Snitch hung there, high in the sky and twinkling brightly in the sunlight. And then it turned and shot straight downwards.

* * *

Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley hated losing.

She was also very good at arithmetic.

If, she thought to herself, Marya caught the Snitch, Hufflepuff would win the match by twenty points. And if they won the match, all their finagling, shrieking and not-quite-confunding-through-barely-legal-love-potion-scents would be in vain. For nothing. _Wasted effort_. She _hated_ wasted effort.

She glanced across the field at Ariadne Greengrass-Nott, who had apparently come to the same conclusion as her, and they nodded sharply at each other.

As Marya Krum shot out of the sky, from behind a cloud, Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley and Ariadne Greengrass-Nott shot towards the Quaffle.

* * *

There was another very simple principle Marya’s father had taught her about flying. Or more accurately, about people.

 _They are cowards_ , he said, very simply. _Cowards or stupid_.

* * *

The pitch had fallen so quiet that the only sound that could be heard was the flapping of robes and the occasional thud of a Beater’s bat came into contact with a Bludger. Every single pair of eyes on the Quidditch field was focused on the pair of Seekers, descending from the sky at breakneck speed. Beaters swung their bats idly at the Bludgers, all while keeping an eye on the pair. In the stands, not a single soul remained seated.

Quidditch, to all extents and purposes had been forgotten.

Forgotten, that is, except for the two Slytherin chasers, zooming across the field towards a very frightened looking Harry Selwyn.

Lorcan was watching Marya’s descent from the sky when a slight tingling on the tip of his nose alerted him to the fact that all was not well with the world. He looked back down towards the pitch, just as Ariadne raised her arm to fling the Quaffle towards the hoop.

In future years, Lysander would tell him very firmly that the sound he made was a squeal, like a pig being murdered. Rolf Scamander would vaguely agree with his son, though he would suggest, in that mild lecturing voice of his that brooked no argument, that ‘it was more like a Crumple Horned Snorkack, one must get one’s creature noises all correct, accuracy in science etc’. Luna rather fancied that it was more of a yelp, like an oversized Crup.

In Lorcan’s mind, however, there was no doubt, that the sound he made as he descended from the sky with a Bludger in tow was none of these, but a very manly war cry.

* * *

It was _not_ as though he was a _coward_ . His _father_ was a coward. Scorpius thought he had the requisite amount of nerve and daring to make him nearly as Gryffindor-ish as his mad great-aunt – as his grandmother called his mad great-aunt’s proclivity for fighting and torturing.

But the ground, he thought, looked very hard and the Snitch was approaching it very fast.

He was not very sure that he wanted to meet the ground at that particular speed, but neither did he want Hufflepuff to win.

The two emotions tore at him as his mouth slowly went dry and his hands went cold and clammy.

* * *

Michal Smith-Finch-Fletchley, alerted by Lorcan’s angry squeal, watched, with a sense of impending doom, as the Quaffle shot through the hoops, barely missing Harry Selwyn’s outstretched arm.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t even as though Slytherin had actually played fairly through the match. They didn’t deserve their win in the least bit, cheats and liars as they all were. Including her sister.

 _Especially_ her sister.

Michal Smith-Finch-Fletchley, age 13, and nursing a resentful and righteous anger against her sister’s general despicableness, shot after the Quaffle, determined to keep it away from those damn Slytherins.

* * *

Now, Scorpius Malfoy was a reasonably clever Quidditch player, but he was far less brave than he was clever, which brought Marya to the third thing her father had taught her.

 _Panic_ _ruins the mind, destroys the finest flyer_.

* * *

“Let go of it,” Ruth warned her sister, as they both grabbed the Quaffle at the same time, “I’ll hurt you.”

Michal stuck her tongue out in response and tugged at the Quaffle, as the two of them shot in front of the hoops.

“I’ll really do it,” she told Michal.

“You’re a _cheat_ ,” said Michal, clinging to the Quaffle, “You’re a _cheat_ and a _liar_.”

“No,” said Ruth, pulling hard at the Quaffle.

“Just smart,” someone else added, coolly.

A third pair of hands settled on the Quaffle and Ariadne Greengrass-Nott smiled nastily at Michal Smith-Finch-Fletchley.

* * *

The fourth thing her father had taught her was very simple.

 _Never cast a spell on another Quidditch player_.

The important part of the rule was not what it told her _not_ to do, but what it did not say at all.

For example, it did not _forbid_ players from casting small-scale illusions, especially if those illusions were _only_ for one’s own entertainment. It did not, furthermore, forbid players from casting illusions that were _gold_ , or illusions which _happened_ to glint in the sunlight. Or illusions that could be chased around the field for fun. There were no rules concerning this.

But the Wronski Feint was permitted and this was no different from the Wronski Feint.

The Snitch, the _real_ Snitch fluttered slightly in the palm of her hand as the distance between her and the ground now closed to a few feet.

* * *

Harry Selwyn watched in horror as his team-mate hurtled towards him, clutching the Quaffle to her chest and squealing in terror.

* * *

“ _OW_ !” shrieked Justin, “ _MY HAND_.”

“ _RUTH_!” bellowed Zacharias, clutching at his husband’s hand, as his youngest daughter slammed into her cousin and the two of them tumbled through the hoops together, “ _MICHAL!_ ”

“ _MY SON_ ,” screamed Draco, as Scorpius flew straight into the ground.

* * *

“ _HUFFLEPUFF HAS THE SNITCH_ ,” cried Mick Jordan, “Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley scores for Slytherin by _throwing_ her sister through the hoops – will this count towards Slytherin’s score or will we move into penalties with the match ending on a draw? Will the snakes finally be called out on their fouls? Maybe _this time_ the referee will rise to the occasion –“

Cassidy Davies, gritted his teeth and rose to the occasion.

“Slytherin wins,” he said, “And those,” he gestured vaguely at Scorpius, Harry Selwyn and Michal Smith-Finch-Fletchley all being administered to by Hannah Abbott, “Well, cancel – it’s all in the numbers – Slytherin wins all right?”

He fled the field before he could be cornered by either Draco Malfoy or Zacharias Smith.

* * *

“That was a very bad game,” Viktor said, shaking his head, “They have become very easy with the rules. So much cheating. If I was referee, I should not have let them score as many points as they did.”

“Yes,” said Marya, holding the Snitch out in her hand, “But I _won_.”

“Of course,” he said, not very surprised, “You’re my daughter, yes? And you showed them how it is done. But this cheating, it must stop, or we will never clean the leagues.”

* * *

The last thing Scorpius remembered, before the world turned completely black, was his father threatening to call his lawyer.

“Krum,” he mumbled unintelligibly, as the world slipped away, “Not Krum. Don’t fight Krum.”

He was not very surprised to wake up in the infirmary, the next day, to find Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley sitting on the bed beside his, sporting a very fine black eye and a head full of snakes, in lieu of hair.

An angry looking Howler lay gathering steam on the table beside her.

“Michal,” she said, with satisfaction, casually munching on a chocolate, “Dad’s grounded me for the whole year. Chocolate? They’re from my godmother, Mafalda Prewett. Got Firewhiskey in them. She says it’s the best way to consume the stuff.”

Scorpius closed his eyes, plugged his ears and thanked all the family stars that at least his godfather had restrained himself to sending him a book on broom braking techniques.

* * *

“You see,” said Zacharias, licking his ice cream. Non fair trade. It always irritated Justin. “ _Cheating_.”

“Repeating the word doesn’t _make_ it cheating, you’re just looking for bad things where there isn’t any –“

“Cheating,” he hissed, “Cheating, cheating, cheating. People are _bad_ Justin, does it make you sick? You hopeless sheep.”

“ _You_ make me sick,” said Justin, “With your – your –“

“My non fair-trade ice cream?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Justin, irritably, “And talking about Ruth like that and calling me a sheep – _you’re a sheep_ , you _stupid_ , Welsh –“

“Sheep?” St John, aged seven, added helpfully.

“Yes, thank you dear,” said Justin.

Zacharias leaned across the table and calmly slathered his ice-cream all over Justin’s face.

“ _Cheats_ ,” he repeated, and then left the establishment without paying the bill.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Code' Ernie and Zacharias refer to is the Duelling Code.
> 
> ADC is the short form of aide-de-camp.


	5. Chapter 5

Viktor Krum  
15 Sybaritik Alley, London

24 January 2024

To:

Sebastian Geldsblatter  
Director of the Federation International de Quidditch Association (FIQA)  
FIQA-Strasse 19, Zurich

Cesare de Platini  
Head of the International Committee for the Quidditch World Cup (ICQWC)  
Office No. 1  
Palais des Sorciers, Wendelin Park, Geneva

Commodus Bagman   
Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports  
10 & 3/4 Whitehall, London

Dear sirs,

This is to inform you of my resignation from the position of Advisor and Consultant to the Committee for the Planning and Design of the 2026 Quidditch World Cup to be held in Russia. I can no longer, in good conscience, offer my advice to the Committee when both the FIQA and ICWQC refuse to investigate the corruption plaguing the game across the world - even in our schools. I have repeatedly brought my issues to officials across departments and across managerial levels to no avail. As a result I have no other choice but to resign in the hope that my resignation will spur these organizations into actions. This letter will clarify the issues behind the tendering of my resignation as Senior Advisor and Consultant to both the ICWQC and FIQA committees for the 2026 World Cup.

My first issue lies with the failure of game officials to provide referees with adequate protection from outside pressures which range from physical threats to their well being to threats to their careers if they are honest and refuse to give in to the pressures exerted by various interests. In a game I recently attended, for example, it was immediately clear to me that the appointed referee had firstly,  a clear bias in favour of one team and secondly, was attempting to make his judgements under extreme pressure from a semi-affiliate of the team in question. This extra-league meddling must be stopped, as must all fraternization between referees and wix associated with teams in question - whether managers, or even relatives of team players.

The second issue I wish both committees to address is unfair play among Quidditch teams; a problem that begins at the school level, which in turn, I believe is the result of our continued dismissal of the school Quidditch leagues as amateur organizations not worth our time. My proposal for a codified set of Quidditch law for schools and for referees trained by FIQA to be appointed to our biggest schools has been rejected by different levels of both FIQA and the ICWQC. The result: young Quidditch players, new to the Leagues, have only a very rudimentary understanding of what does and does not constitute a foul - making the games much more violent and therefore, slanted in favour of teams who have no concerns about fouling as long as they win.

More seriously and a much more grievous issue, in my opinion, is the problem of bribery, graft and match-fixing that infects the sport right from the school leagues all the way to the top of FIQA and the ICWQC. If this is not tackled and the committees do nothing to render the behind the scenes processes of Quidditch more transparent, then I will be forced to take this matter to the press, along with the names of officials I suspect are involved in backroom Quidditch deals, and expose it to the public in the hope that public indignation, at least, and the threat of the retribution of the law might force your committees to take action and clean up the sport.

Till then, I find myself unable to continue working in my position as Senior Advisor and consultant for the 2026 World Cup Committees.

Yours Sincerely,  
Viktor Petrov Krum.

cc: Claudius Bowstreet, Head of the Committee For The Investigation Of Fraud and Corrupt Sporting Practices, ICWQC.

M.A.L.

* * *

"D'you know what Justin's latest fad is?" Zacharias demanded of Anthony.

"No," Anthony Goldstein murmured into his glass of lime juice, "But I have a feeling I'm going to hear about it whether I like it or not."

"It's _vegan_ cake," Zacharias continued, oblivious, "With vegetables."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Anthony replied, "Carrot cake is a perfectly legitimate form of cake."

"No you don't understand," said Zacharias, "He's combined it with his experimental cooking phase. It's. Imagine a cake that looks like the product of a flobberworm with digestive problems. That's what it looks like. The whole damn thing was _green_ and slimy because he'd ground almond milk with avocados and bananas and he called it a _fun cake_."

"Oh dear," said Anthony, not very sympathetically at all.

"The whole thing would have been fine if he'd eaten it himself but he insisted on giving the bloody thing to St John to eat. Naturally the kid threw a tantrum. An honest-to-Merlin tantrum - tears, rolling on the ground and banging his fists around; you know, the works."

Anthony grinned as he toyed with the shrimp in his salad. St John's tantrums were infamous among their little friend circle and generally held up to other children and aspiring parents as an example of what a child ought not to be.

It was also generally agreed that St John was remarkably like the both of his fathers in the worst of their tempers, though no one dared say this out loud to either Justin or Zacharias. It would have meant endless arguments over who was to blame for what fault - followed by very noisy and often scandalous make-up sex that would inevitably scar everyone except Justin and Zach.

Like the bathroom incident.

Anthony did not want a repeat of the bathroom incident.

Zacharias continued with his story, waving his fork about for emphasis in one hand and his glass of wine with the other.

"'Course, Justin burst into tears because St John said it looked like Michal's vomit and I said St John was quite right only I fancied it looked more like dog sick. So obviously he had to go have a lie down because Helga knows we don't want _him_ coming down with one of his nervous migraines. I try and talk St John down from his tantrum by promising to make the bloody kid sausages only the pan gets set on fire because who _fucking_ knows and St John says he won't eat burnt food and he'll complain to Potter and Granger-Weasley that we're not feeding him properly. I mean, Merlin's sake, naturally I wouldn't have it so I sent him to bed with only an apple for dinner and instead of being thankful the next day Justin yells at me for being a neglectful drunk when he bloody started it with his stupid _fun cake_."

Zacharias drained the rest of his eighth glass of Prosecco and glared at Anthony, "I mean. Is it _too_ much to ask for for a little gratitude?"

Anthony eyed Zacharias' glass dubiously, as Zacharias filled it yet again. The man was well on his way to being properly drunk even if he insisted he was only mildly sloshed.

"How terrible," Anthony replied, hoping devoutly that this wouldn't mean he'd have to haul the man home, "I still think you should see someone about your problems."

"Justin thinks everyone's too negative," said Zacharias disconsolately.

"And he still married you," Anthony mumbled to himself.

Zacharias paused in the middle of expanding on Justin's unhealthy fondness for positive thinking (almost always accompanied by virulently green smoothies and lectures on how his work would be infinitely easier and of of a much higher quality if only he exercised his mind to think positive thoughts) to glare at Anthony.

Anthony smiled sweetly at him.

"Anyway," he said, still glaring suspiciously at his friend, "Justin's completely wrong about positive thinking and the latest sting I've been working on will show him."

"Oh?" said Anthony, his eyes wandering to the figure entering the pub at that moment, "Is that so?"

"Positive thinking's all very well for the electorate," said Zacharias, apparently blind to the way Anthony was grimacing meaningfully at the new entrant to the pub, "But it's no way to get _answers_ you know -"

Anthony, with only a slight twinge of guilt, tuned his friend out and rolled his eyes at the man who'd just entered - his husband to be precise - and was now pointing at his watch.

A conversation conducted entirely by eyebrow wiggles ensued.

Anthony vaguely registered the words 'corruption' 'snakes' and 'Quidditch' being thrown around but he ignored all that. Zacharias and Michael were two of a kind. Both got themselves into trouble with unfailing regularity and both imagined - remained eternally convinced was probably a better descriptor - that their next endeavour would be The Next Big Thing. Anthony had yet to see that come true.

He decided to settle on running the tip of his tongue suggestively along the rim of his glass of lemonade.

_Like a teenager_ , he thought to himself ruefully. He'd have to spend a few days in Terry's company now; Michael and Zacharias were beginning to rub off on him.

The flush creeping up Gabriel Truman's neck was worth it, though.

"Well?" demanded Zacharias, as he poured himself yet another glass of wine, "What do you think?"

"Ten," said Anthony, returning his attention to Zacharias.

"What?"

"Ten. As in, what a splendid idea," he said smoothly, "And this is how you plan to work Justin out of his crotchets?"

"Out of his mind-over-matter positive thinking," Zacharias corrected him, "Why are you making that face?"

Anthony looked up at his friend from between his fingers.

"It may come as a surprise to you," he said, "But you're not as dashing as Richard Burton, Justin is nowhere as near as temperamental as Liz Taylor and an investigative report on Quidditch is very definitely not a diamond. At all. In fact you might just try solving all your problems by communicating or being nice and civilized to Justin like most normal human beings would - or in your case, simply apologising for being a ruddy arsehole."

Zacharias considered his friend for a moment and then said very kindly:

"Anthony, lad, you're quite drunk."

It was only by exerting the greatest amount of willpower that stopped Anthony from throwing his glass of very non-alcoholic lemonade at his friend's head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M.A.L. stands for the initials of Viktor Krum's secretary/translator.


	6. Chapter 6

**QUIDDITCH: ON THE PITCH OR IN THE COURTS?**

There’s a different mood around Quidditch at Hogwarts this year, and not just because the teams are pulling out all stops to win. Quidditch has become a much more expansive game, drawing in parents and alumni, bonded by the vision of their successors’ success, and aiming for victory with every trick in the book. In the most recent match, Ravenclaw faced Slytherin, and every trick in the book—that book being the extensive Quidditch rulebook—came into play. Although Draco Malfoy’s threat of legal action against the Ravenclaw team has failed, both the Quidditch community and high society eagerly await Draco Malfoy vs. the Hufflepuff Quidditch Team, a trial soon to be fought in the Ministry of Magic’s courtrooms.

From: _The Sol_ , 20 – 26 February, 2023

 

* * *

 

“So,” Lucy Weasley said, “tomorrow, we face Ravenclaw.”

“Ravenclaw,” Juno Flint agreed. “Nothing we haven’t dealt with before.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes. “You’re off my radar, Juno. I’m more worried about…”

She trailed off, glancing at Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley and Ariadne Greengrass-Nott. “Double-barrels,” Lucy muttered darkly. “They’re always troublemakers.”

“You and your sister were in different houses,” Juno pointed out, which earnt her a glare from Lucy.

“That’s correct,” Lucy said. “But Molly dearest never played Quidditch, so we never had a problem. Ruth’s cousin and Ariadne’s sister are on the Ravenclaw team. I don’t want them to be compromised.”

Juno raised an eyebrow. “Your cousin’s on their team, too. And have you forgotten our match against Hufflepuff already? Ruth and her sister almost killed each other.”

Standing up a little taller, Lucy looked down her nose at Juno. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

 

* * *

 

There was no nice way to say it: Ravenclaw was a mess. After watching Slytherin quite literally _slaughter_ Hufflepuff, they were on high alert for nasty tactics. Unfortunately for Michael Corner, this meant they had all but tossed his strategies out the window in favour of esoteric Quidditch tomes from the Restricted Section, and the sort of practice that was as much a course in the intricacies of wixen law as it was drills up and down the pitch.

Actually, it had all been going quite well, up until match day. Then, at seven in the morning, Doris Cornfoot broke a bat trying to practice on a melon, which Juno Flint charmed mid-air to be made of diamond. Sisters Anthea and Ariadne had almost come to blows over the latter threatening Lian Chang-Finch-Fletchley; no-one knew the precise nature of the threats, only that they had been handed down in the previous day’s Herbology lesson, and now Lian wouldn’t leave her bed. Hugo Weasley was so stressed that he’d thrown up five times, Dinah Entwhistle had nearly broken her fingers punching Flint’s lights out, and Dante Yaxley simply refused to stop reading.

They hadn’t even got to the pitch yet.

Lysander felt like a very confused father to a mob of unruly children. He wasn’t sure who needed the most disciplining, and he didn’t think that was something he wanted to find out.

Of course, the cherry on top of the cake was Michael Corner coming up to him half an hour before the match was due to start.

“Scamander,” he said. “There’s a lot on your shoulders today, kid.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Lysander said sweetly, “I’d almost forgotten.”

“This match will make or break our chances this year,” Michael said. “We lose this, we’re out. But if we win, there’s a chance we can beat Hufflepuff in May, and then the cup will be ours.”

Looking back on the day, Lysander would say that this was the moment when everything started going wrong.

“You talk like you’ll be on the pitch with us,” he said. “ _We_ , _us_ , _ours_ —it’s almost like you’re on the team.”

Michael gave him a bit of an awkward frown. “Well, yes, I am—in spirit, of course.”

Lysander gritted his teeth. “You’re no more a member of this team than Scorpius Malfoy. We don’t _want_ your interference, and you know what else? We don’t _need_ it.”

If Michael Corner were a lesser man with no qualms about hitting a seventeen year old, Lysander could’ve sworn that the look in his eyes foretold a fight. As it was, he balled his hands into fists at his side and stalked off without another word.

“Graceful in retreat,” Lysander said to himself, “but not in defeat.”

Taking a deep breath, he went back to the changing rooms, where his team had assembled. Even Lian was in her Quidditch gear, which was a relief. Anthea and Doris had a protective arm each Lian’s shoulder, and they looked ready to murder.

“Alright,” Lysander said, “I know this has been a stressful morning for various reasons beyond our control, but we _can’t_ lose to Slytherin—got it?”

“Don’t go all Corner on us,” Dinah grumbled, folding her arms.

Lysander let out a laugh. He was vaguely aware he might have sounded a little unhinged. “I don’t want to win for any prestige,” he said. “I want to win because I know we can. We’re Ravenclaw’s finest, and if we don’t put Slytherin in their place, who will?”

“Probably not Gryffindor,” Hugo said, giving Lysander a shaky smile. Slowly, the atmosphere dissipated as the seven of them dissolved into laughter.

As the team filed out to the pitch, Anthea paused, clapping Lysander on the shoulder. “I’ll do whatever it takes, captain.”

“Just don’t get yourself injured,” Lysander said.

“Whatever it takes,” Anthea repeated.

Dante put his hand on Lysander’s other shoulder. “And I’ll make sure no-one finds the bodies.”

“Sometimes you two terrify me,” Lysander said. “Then again, I suppose it’s better to have terrifying friends, rather than enemies.”

Anthea let go, smiling like she genuinely would do something unforgivable to win the match. Dante lingered a second longer, opening his mouth as though he was going to say something, before closing it again, frowning.

“You alright?” Lysander asked.

“Yeah.” Dante pulled his arm back. “Let’s do this.”

 

* * *

 

As the teams kicked off the ground and rose to the air, Draco Malfoy’s attention was momentarily distracted. One row and a few seats down, Michael Corner was _sulking_. Draco felt a little bit like it was his destiny to find out why and, if possible, exacerbate the problem.

“Problem, Corner?” he asked, leaning over the back of the seat and putting on his best smirk.

Michael didn’t even look around. “None of your business, Malfoy.”

Scowling, Draco did an undignified little hop over the seat back while he was sure no-one was looking and sat down next to Michael. “You can tell me if there’s something bothering you,” he said.

“Don’t be fake with me,” Michael said, swivelling to face him. “I’m just here to watch the game.”

“As are we all,” Draco said. “Well, I’d wish Ravenclaw the best of luck, but we all know that even luck won’t save them from Slytherin.

“That’s good, then,” Michael said, “since Ravenclaw can do better than just rely on luck.”

“Big words from a coach who isn’t even by the pitch,” Draco pointed out. “Do you want to tell me what happened there?”

“Listen here, you—”

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

Draco and Michael turned around, their heads almost knocking together, to see Percy Weasley standing sanctimoniously in the aisle behind them.

“I do hope nothing untoward will mar the match today,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “After all, Draco, you and I are both here to watch our children make the most of their last year of Hogwarts Quidditch. I’d hate for anything to ruin that for them.”

Merlin, he was an annoying prick. As if Draco would do anything to ruin this! He was there to do the very _opposite_ of ruin. He was the most supportive parent Slytherin had. They ought to be grateful. Weasley especially ought to be grateful, since his support for Slytherin was entirely conditional on his daughter’s tenure playing for their team.

“Of course not,” Draco said calmly. “I was just leaving.”

 

* * *

 

Ariadne Greengrass-Nott scored the first goal of the match, and it was an honest point, scored fairly as the Quaffle slipped through Hugo Weasley’s fingers.

Anthea Greengrass-Nott scored the second goal of the match, intercepting the Quaffle from a throw intended for her sister and sending it right past Lucy Weasley’s shoulder.

After that, it was clear that Ariadne was out for her sister’s blood. She marked her aggressively, dodging Doris and Dinah’s best Bludgers to keep her course swift and true. The next three goals were scored by Dante and Lysander while Slytherin tied themselves in knots over the Greengrass-Notts—Anthea proved quite a useful distraction, but it didn’t last long until Slytherin got themselves back together and started taking possession of the Quaffle again.

It was 60-30 in Ravenclaw’s favour when the gloves came off.

Literally.

 

* * *

 

Juno Flint didn’t fancy herself a particularly mean-spirited person. People tended to tell her she was gruff and generally quite unkind, but her heart was unwaveringly in the right place.

Except on the Quidditch pitch, of course.

Using the screaming that had been ruled legitimate in their last match, she made a sharp approach and stood on the tail-end of Scamander’s broom, tilting him sideways and shocking him enough that the Quaffle flew out of his hands and into hers, and then out of her hands and into a goal hoop.

“I am _quite_ certain that’s not a legitimate move,” Scamander shouted. Juno liked seeing him lose his cool. It wasn’t something that happened often.

“Check the rulebook,” Ariadne Greengrass-Nott said, flying up alongside them. “The Appleby Arrows and the Wimbourne Wasps, 1563. Smythewicke, a well-known player for the Wasps, was ruled legitimate in standing on his opponent’s broom, and—”

“I get it, you’ve done your research,” Scamander said. “However…”

“The move was never used again,” Ariadne’s sister said, swooping from Scamander’s other side. “Smythewicke died in 1565 trying to transfigure his feet into broomsticks. Would you really trust a move created by that sort of man?”

It was enough for the referee, and the penalty went to Ravenclaw.

Juno cursed under her breath as she flew away from the scene of the crime, ready to intercept the Quaffle. If Ravenclaw had been reading up too, then Slytherin would just have to play a bit dirtier.

 

* * *

 

“Well, this is nice, isn’t it?” Justin Finch-Fletchley said cheerfully, putting aside his Omnioculars in favour of turning to his husband. “Don’t you think, Zach?”

“Oh, yes, very good,” Zacharias Smith said, “although I’m sure you’re still _more_ than willing to overlook the fact that our daughter, flying around the pitch with _snakes in her hair_ , is on a team of _cheaters_.”

“Again with the cheating and the snakes,” Justin said wearily. “I’m sure the snakes are just an expression of her Slytherin pride—and didn’t you have any house pride when you were at school?”

Zacharias bristled at the very insinuation he was anything less than the most proud Hufflepuff, although he knew realistically that Ernie Macmillan probably laid claim to that dubious title. “I didn’t express it in such a—such a _strange_ way.”

“Oh, dear,” Justin said, “so now our daughter’s _strange_ , is she?”

On the pitch, Ruth flew screaming towards one of Ravenclaw’s chasers, zooming between their looming beaters and dodging a Bludger as she proceeded to fly in circles around the chaser, yelling something indiscernible as a probable method of distraction.

Zacharias raised an eyebrow at Justin. “You were saying?”

 

* * *

 

After he had escaped the clutches of the Smith-Finch-Fletchley Human Gyroscope, or whatever the bloody hell she wanted to call that daft move, Dante Yaxley felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It was a tension building in his chest that he was often very good at suppressing—it was _anger_.

For all his reputation as unflappable and level-headed, he wanted nothing more than to grab a Bludger in his own two hands and lob it at Smith-Finch-Fletchley’s head. It was an unusual feeling, but curiously motivating. He rather liked it.

And, of course, he had one delightful advantage over Slytherin. He was a _reader_. He could read upwards of five hundred pages a day if he pushed himself and maybe paid a little less attention in class than he ought to, and since November he’d read every single Quidditch book in the library, and then some. He knew the game backwards, sideways, and spinning in a weird circle.

So far, Anthea was doing a very good job of one-upping her sister’s slightly inferior intellect as they argued over fouls, so Dante held back, saving his knowledge for something truly spectacular.

He was doing better at scoring, now that he was fired up. That was something. While Smith-Finch-Fletchley was busy running circles around Anthea, Dante flew towards the hoops and hovered next to Lucy Weasley.

“Not planning to try anything, are you?” Weasley asked, raising an eyebrow.

“With the exception of scoring,” he said calmly.

“I’d like to see you get one past me,” she said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dante saw Lysander approaching with the Quaffle. He tried not to make any sudden moves as Lysander primed himself to throw.

“Well,” he said, one eye on Weasley, one on the ball, “lucky for you, I love a challenge.”

The ball came at him with all the force of one of Lysander’s best tosses, and Dante grabbed it and, scooting back a bit, chucked it over Weasley’s head and through the hoop.

“Nice one, Dante!” Lysander called.

Dante turned to give him a definitely-not-excited thumbs up, and was greeted with the sight of Lysander giving him perhaps the most radiant grin in the history of humanity. This time, Dante felt something slightly different flutter in his chest.

 

* * *

 

“A bloody foul,” Doris muttered, “for _distracting the keeper_. Bullshit.”

“Right,” Dinah said. “Dante’s on form. That goal should’ve been ours.”

“With all the tricks Slytherin are pulling—”

Doris cut herself off, feeling uncomfortably like she was being watched. When she twisted her neck around to look over her shoulder, she saw one of the Goyle twins—whatever their names were—glaring at her back.

“Uh-oh,” she mumbled, turning back to Dinah, “I’ve been wondering why terrible twins have been so quiet. I reckon they’re staking us out.”

“I could take them in a fight,” Dinah said.

Doris smirked, tightening her grip on her bat. “I think I could too.”

 

* * *

 

Mick Jordan was having the time of his life. Commentating had always been fun, but this year’s matches had been especially enjoyable.

“And there’s Slytherin’s penalty, after that clever but ultimately foul Ravenclaw point,” he narrated into the microphone. “The Quaffle goes straight to Greengrass-Nott, who tosses it to Smith-Finch-Fletchley, and why can’t these bastards have normal names—”

“ _Language_ ,” the headmaster snapped—or, as close to snapping as Professor Longbottom could get. _He’s a good bloke_ , Mick thought. _Lenient_.

“Anyway, after that foul it looks like Slytherin are solidly in possession of the Quaffle,” Mick continued, unperturbed. “Although whether they’ll try anything stupid—er, sorry, _inventive_ —is anyone’s guess. Well, there goes Flint with the Quaffle, and— _WHAT THE FUCK_ —”

 

* * *

 

There was barely time to blink before the Quaffle came speeding towards Hugo Weasley. He barely managed to get out of the way before it hit him square in the face. Unfortunately, this also meant that the Quaffle went straight through the hoop behind him.

“But that’s,” he breathed, “ _impossible_ …”

Except he’d seen it with his own two eyes: Juno Flint had passed the Quaffle towards one of the Goyle twins—Eugene? Eustace?—and he’d hit it towards the hoops _with his bat_. _And it had scored_.

Hugo’s second instinct, after dodging, was to call foul, but Lysander beat him to it.

“FOUL!” he hollered. “That was a bloody foul! That’s not in the rules! That’s not—”

“Actually,” Ariadne Greengrass-Nott recited, “in an 1873 match between—”

“Spare me the history lesson,” Lysander said, which Hugo thought sounded a little funny coming from someone who'd read every book in the Hogwarts library, and then some. “We’re taking this to the referee.”

Cassidy Davies looked like he might cry.

 

* * *

 

“Brilliant,” Draco breathed. Eustace Goyle’s goal was a masterstroke, a true modern masterpiece.

So, of _course_ Ravenclaw would take issue with it.

“You have to admit that was dubious,” Percy Weasley said, “even for Slytherin.”

“Do I detect a hint of malcontent?” Draco asked. “I’ve half a mind to take this up with the referee myself.”

A quick glance told him that Michael Corner wasn’t doing anything about it, and Draco rather felt like his suspicions were confirmed, that he’d had a bit of a falling out with his team. Draco locked eyes with Weasley, but Weasley didn’t flinch. “At your leisure,” he said, gesturing to the pitch.

Draco grabbed his broom.

 

* * *

 

If anyone asked, Scorpius Malfoy _cordially disliked_ Lysander Scamander. Lysander was the captain of Ravenclaw’s Quidditch team and from a loopy family, and he was the very sort of person that Scorpius would’ve chosen as a rival were he not blessed with the existence of Albus Potter.

In truly extenuating circumstances, however, Scorpius was willing to let his enmity slip for the sake of bonding over how truly, unbelievably stupid adults could be.

“Now look here,” Scorpius’ father said to Cassidy Davies, “we’ve been through this before. The Slytherin team are familiar with the rules, and wouldn’t do anything illegal to the sport.”

“I’m not saying it happened on purpose,” Rolf Scamander said, looking particularly jumpy beside Draco. “We can consider the possibility of Wrackspurts influencing young Eustace’s behaviour. In fact, it’s something I’ve studied extensively—”

“Spare me the mumbo-jumbo, _Professor_ ,” Draco said testily. “Wrackspurts or no Wrackspurts, there’s no question that it was a legal move.”

Scorpius glanced at Lysander, who looked as exhausted as he felt. Perhaps this would all blow over with no more fuss, and they could get back to playing a normal game of Quidditch—or, as normal as it got.

“Excuse me.”

When he looked up, Scorpius saw Dante Yaxley approaching the referee. Scorpius and Dante had grown up together, but since being sorted into Ravenclaw, Dante had gone a bit native. This sort of confrontation couldn’t possibly end well.

“Quidditch World Cup, 1701,” Dante said. “Semifinals, England against Sweden. The English beater Johnson accidentally hit a Quaffle when his vision was obscured by a bird flying into face, which later was determined to have been the Snitch, and because he had touched the Snitch before either of the seekers, England won on technicality. The point is, the Quaffle flew past the Swedish keeper Jönsson and scored a goal, which was ruled foul because it was hit by a bat and not thrown by hand.”

“I see,” Professor Scamander said. “So a goal technically counts so long as whoever scores has thrown it with their hands?”

“Right,” Dante said, “just as the game is technically over when the Snitch is caught, whoever catches it. Of course, this is discouraged—”

“I can’t bear to listen to this nonsense a moment longer,” Draco said, folding his arms. “Slytherin scored, it was a goal, what more do you want?”

“I’m afraid I can’t accept this goal,” Davies said hesitantly. “It’s simply not allowed.”

As Draco bristled, Lysander let out a sigh of relief. “ _Thank_ you,” he said, “now can we please get back to the game?”

Scorpius narrowed his eyes. “No need to act so high-and-mighty about it,” he said, although, really, he couldn’t have agreed more. For good measure, he narrowed his eyes at Dante too. This wasn’t over.

 

* * *

 

After Eustace Goyle’s goal, the atmosphere was palpably tense. This was no longer a game of Quidditch—it was each man for himself, with the objective of destroying the other team’s life. Both teams became brutish and disorganised, flying erratically to score at any cost.

No-one was paying attention to the seekers. Lian Chang-Finch-Fletchley was beginning to feel very lonely hovering so high above all the action, but she didn’t want to get hurt, so unlike Scorpius Malfoy, she stayed far from everyone else. She wasn’t a captain, she didn’t have to be anywhere looking out for anyone else. It would be fine.

It was sort of annoying, though, that there was no sign of the Snitch. Lian had a keen eye—that’s what made her a good seeker—but though it would show up clearly against the grey sky, there had been no telling flash of gold.

So, although what was going on below her was no doubt very exciting, Lian kept her eyes on the sky. Eventually, her opportunity would come.

 

* * *

 

Michael Corner barely held back his grin when Draco Malfoy came stalking back to the stands, looking disaffected and mopey now that his faux-legal wrangling had failed.

“Well, well,” Michael said, “look who’s got his tail between his legs.”

“Save it, Corner,” Draco snapped. “I’m in no mood to waste time talking to the likes of you.”

Laughing, Michael reclined further back in his seat. “Fine by me. Ravenclaw are ahead by sixty points. I won’t have anything to do with you after this match is over.”

“Such a pity,” came Percy Weasley’s voice from behind them. “I was so hoping this match would go smoothly.”

 

* * *

 

Things were not going well for Slytherin. All of Lucy’s worst fears felt like they were coming to fruition—the Greengrass-Nott sisters sniping at each other, Ruth and Juno playing more aggressively than usual, the Goyle twins, aka Secret Weapon #1, barred from scoring because of some stupid technicality, and worst of all: _Ravenclaw was winning_.

So, now it was time for Secret Weapon #2: The Machine.

Lucy waited until a goal opened up for Ravenclaw. Scamander himself came at her with the Quaffle. His throws were always the hardest to block, but Lucy made sure she caught it, even if the recoil was brutal. And then, before throwing it back into the fray, she cleared her throat.

 

* * *

 

Scorpius was at the opposite end of the pitch when he heard Lucy yell: “ _FORMATION FIFTEEN!_ ”

“Oh, bugger,” he muttered. At least he was roughly where he needed to be.

 

* * *

 

Wide-eyed, Hugo watched the entire thing unfold from his position in front of the middle goal. When his cousin threw the Quaffle back into play, the rest of the Slytherin players flew _away_ from her. At first, Hugo thought she was going for a long throw, but it fell short, just short of Lysander, in fact, and began plummeting to the ground.

“Someone intercept it!” Hugo called out, though there was nothing he could do.

In the blink of an eye, one of the Goyle twins was below the Quaffle and struck it towards the other end of the pitch with his bat.

Juno and Ariadne were in position to catch it, but something wasn’t quite right. They were both at too much of an angle for the hit—but then, equally quickly, the other Goyle twin appeared right in its path. Hugo gaped as he hit the Quaffle right towards Ruth’s waiting hands.

Clearly, though, they hadn’t relied on Ravenclaw’s beaters. As Ravenclaw’s chasers began to converge on the Quaffle from the other end of the pitch, Dinah charged towards Ruth roaring bloody murder. Before Ruth could grab the Quaffle, Dinah smacked it off-course. There were no Ravenclaw chasers there to catch it, but they all went for it anyway, flying faster than Hugo had ever seen.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Entwhistle hit the Quaffle away from Ruth, Scorpius knew he was done for.

“Plan B,” he mumbled, abandoning his instinct to seek the Snitch and nosediving towards the Quaffle.

 

* * *

 

Lysander felt his hopes sink to the ground as Scorpius Malfoy scored ten points for Slytherin, right past Hugo, who was so busy gaping that he ignored the Quaffle entirely.

“Wonderful,” he said to no-one in particular, “we’re done for.”

By the goalposts, Anthea and Dante had rounded on Scorpius. “That was a foul!” Anthea said.

“Actually, sister dearest,” Ariadne said, flying up alongside her, “what was it your teammate said earlier? That technically any goal is legal so long as it’s thrown by hand?”

Dante narrowed his mouth into a line but did not comment.

“It’s bullshit!” Anthea said. “I’m not going to accept this. Hugo?”

“O-oh, right,” Hugo said, snapping to attention. “Neither am I!”

“Anyway,” Ariande continued, “before that, your beater hit the Quaffle. Didn’t you say that was a foul?”

“Dinah didn’t hit a goal!” Doris said, coming to her defence. “She was just—just, stopping a goal from happening!”

“She still hit it,” Ruth chimed in, the snakes in her hair hissing in agreement.

Embarrassingly, it was Doris who threw the first punch. As Dinah tried to pull Doris off Ruth, Ariadne grabbed Dinah from behind, trying to get her away from Doris.

“You fucking arseholes!” Dinah screeched, throwing all her weight into throwing Ariadne off her—Ariadne went flying backwards and right into Hugo, who let out a yell and flailed his arms about ineffectively. Anthea flew ostensibly to help Hugo, but once there she just started howling at her sister.

While they fought, Juno joined Ruth in tousling with Dinah and Doris. It was a swarm of fists and swearing.

“Uncouth,” Scorpius muttered. “So uncouth.”

Lysander sighed. “Alright,” he said, “let’s break this up—”

“Fucking help me out here, Eustace, Frederic!” Juno called. The closest Goyle held his bat at the ready. From nowhere, the other Goyle seemed to summon a Bludger and hit it towards his brother.

As Lysander begrudgingly took Dinah’s shoulders and pulled her away, the Bludger came hurtling towards the cluster of Quidditch players and hit Lysander square in the shoulder.

The last thing he saw before toppling off his broom was Dante taking his gloves off and flying straight for the Goyle who’d hit the Bludger, shouting, “I’m going to ruin your fucking life!” Lysander thought idly that Dante and Anthea might end up hiding a few bodies after all—

—and then he hit the ground.

 

* * *

 

Lian shot higher into the sky.

 

* * *

 

“Unbelievable,” Hannah Abbott said, closing the door to the infirmary behind her. “These are _children_. This should not have been allowed to happen. Who let this happen?”

“The game has been too rough this year,” Neville said, folding his arms. “Far too rough. This is the last time we’ll let this weird pent-up violence slip through the cracks.”

Hannah wasn’t convinced, but she wouldn’t want to be seen scolding Neville in front of everyone. She looked over at where the parents and teachers were gathered, deep in discussion, and saw Draco Malfoy approaching. “Oh _no_ ,” she said under her breath, “here’s even more trouble.”

“I won’t stand for this!” Draco said. “I will not!”

“Now, now,” Rolf Scamander said, “whatever your grievance is—”

“That match was unfairly in Ravenclaw’s favour,” Draco insisted. “Surely you saw all the penalties they were given? All the fouls that were completely overlooked?”

Rolf stood up a little straighter, his face the closest it would ever get to a scowl. “Most of those fouls were perpetuated by the Slytherin team,” he said.

“That’s a blatant lie,” Draco said. “I’ll sue for damages—this is _slander_! If one word of your accusations goes further, I’ll sue—”

“You will do _nothing_ of the sort,” Hannah said, storming up to him. She’d had it up to her eyebrows with these men and the way they were turning innocent school Quidditch into a cock-waving contest. “I have thirteen children in the infirmary suffering from varying degrees of injury—not caused by magic, no, but by physical abrasion. Do you mean to tell me that you condone the sort of Quidditch that results in these injuries?”

“I—” Draco began.

“And what’s more,” Hannah continued, “with your threats of _legal action_. Do you know what you sound like? You sound like a baby who’s had his favourite toy taken away. Do you think you can play toy soldiers with these children on the Quidditch pitch?”

Draco stared at her, his mouth hanging open. That was the sort of thing Hannah liked to see.

“Are we quite done here?” she asked.

Slowly, the crowd dissipated, and Neville turned to give Hannah such an adoring look that it made her heart leap. “Impressive,” he said. “That ought to put this on hold for now.”

Hannah sighed. “For _now_.”

 

* * *

 

Lysander’s eyes opened slowly. It didn’t take long before he realised that he was lying in the infirmary. The sounds of pained groans certainly clued him in quickly enough. To his left, Anthea was propped up on some pillows with her leg in a cast, drinking a bright green potionJust beyond her, Ariadne was lying on her side facing the other way. To his right, Scorpius was tending to his own bruises as the Goyle twins lay comatose beside him. From a distant corner of the room he could hear what sounded like Dinah and Juno arguing, _still_.

Dante was perched cross-legged on the edge of his bed, one arm in a sling and the other holding _A Succinct History of the Quidditch World Cup_ , current as of the 19th century. He looked up from it briefly as Lysander pulled himself so that he was sitting up.

“I’m surprised we’re all alive,” Lysander said. “Did we at least win?”

“We did” Dante said. “Lian caught the Snitch just after you got knocked off your broom. That was quite a fall, by the way.”

“Yeah, well,” Lysander said, “at least I didn’t try to punch a Goyle.”

“ _Two_ Goyles,” Dante corrected, not looking up from his book. “Anyway, all I got was a broken arm. And some broken fingers. And two cracked ribs. But not a concussion, or anything like that.”

Lysander rolled his eyes. “Right, that’s all.” He paused, unsure how to phrase his thoughts. “Er, thanks, by the way. For beating up two Goyles for me.”

“Any time,” Dante said. He was still very pointedly staring at the book, but Lysander doubted he was getting any reading done. He was even _blushing_.

“Next time,” Lysander said, almost swallowing his words, “you can ask me to Hogsmeade instead.”


	7. Chapter 7

Anthony made his way up to courtroom number fifteen, a room reserved solely for civil action suits and conflict mediation, used only once in a way when some snotty pureblood took issue with another snotty pureblood and the twain refused to meet. To all but the most casual observer, it was clear that Anthony would much rather be elsewhere. He had far more pressing business to attend to. The Percy Weasley business, for example. The matter was refusing to solve itself; in fact the whole thing seemed to be slowly blowing up in his face. Viktor Krum had resigned completely from the Quidditch sphere, and the papers were all over it. Lots was being made of the whole issue in _The Prophet_ and _Quidditch Daily_. To top it all, the whizz kids down in Comms had sent them a list of at least ten known agents in the country – _ten_! There had been _fifteen_ during the second wizarding war, which meant this was blowing up into a Code Green – and one Agent Knockturn, who’d resurfaced after nearly twenty-eight years of silence.

It was only a matter of time before the lid was blown off completely and _The Prophet_ and _The Wixenomist_ were dancing jigs over their graves, one calling for public inquiries and the other calling for ‘smaller’ government. _The Sol_ and _The Quibbler_ at least, would restrain themselves to hysterical shrieking that no self-respecting government official would take seriously. That was always the danger with the press: they put ideas into the heads of politicians and then the Service had to go cleaning up after them when they tried, as they inevitably did, to act on those ideas. It was all very annoying.

But no, today, instead of being allowed to dedicate his brainpower to solving this brewing crisis, he’d been called in to testify to the fickleness of Draco Malfoy’s character.

It was a bit stupid, as Michael would have eloquently put it. He barely knew Malfoy. The only reason _he’d_ been called in to testify to the fickleness of Draco Malfoy’s character and his proclivity for over-exaggeration was because Zacharias Smith and Harry Potter were currently not on speaking terms. Not that they’d ever been on speaking terms, but lately, what with the Quidditch and Zach being Zach over Lily Potter being in Hufflepuff and having to play Albus during the upcoming Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match, their relationship had degenerated from polite hellos in public to punches thrown at every opportunity.

Sometimes Anthony felt like he was the only grown-up around, trapped inside a world of teenagers stuck inside adult bodies. Or maybe he meant adults trying to pretend they’d never aged past seventeen. The effect was all the same at any rate and Anthony Goldstein was caught in the crossfire of everyone’s midlife crises.

Of course, he was still a little better off than Viktor Krum, who had been summoned from his very busy schedule doing whatever it was that former international Quidditch superstars did, to testify to the fact that yes, the Ravenclaw-Slytherin match was as violent as Zacharias Smith said it was and no, Draco Malfoy was lying when he claimed Slytherin was the innocent party. It was pretty decent of Krum to bow to the summons of Zach and Ernie and cancel his activities for the day, Anthony thought. He wouldn’t have been half as obliging if he’d been in Krum’s place and he’d been summoned to play the role of disinterested third party to someone else’s petty house rivalries.

Frankly, Anthony thought that both Zach and Ernie were taking this ‘we Hufflepuff’ business too far with this case.

“I know what you think, Smith,” he could hear Draco telling Zacharias, as they came towards the courtroom, “But I wouldn’t expect _you_ to understand what it means to be a player on the international stage, or the importance of discretion – since your whole life revolves around being indiscreet – when you have interests to balance on an international level.”

“Oh no,” he heard Zacharias say in a particularly nasty voice, “I know _exactly_ what you mean by balancing interests. One day I’ll even be indiscreet about yours.”

They rounded the corner together glaring daggers at each other, flanked by a fleet of lawyers. Hannah Abbott trailed a little way behind them, making faces as the two men argued away.

“I’d suggest you settle this quietly out of court,” said Zacharias, smiling the smile he saved for when he knew he was about to hoist someone by their own petard, “For your own sake. Unless you _want_ your linen to be aired in public.”

“I have nothing to be ashamed of,” Draco replied loftily, “Are you insinuating that I do because –“

“No Malfoy,” said Zacharias sweetly, “I’m only _concerned_ for you and your international interests.”

Hannah rolled her eyes at Anthony.

“Boys,” she mouthed.

* * *

“You mean to say,” said Augusta Longbottom, “That she called you,” she pushed her glasses up her nose and frowned at her sheaf of papers, “’A baby who has had his favourite toy taken away’?“

She looked at Draco down the long beak of her bony nose.

“Yes,” he said, “And –“

“And,” Augusta calmly over-rode him, “She told you she would have none of this ‘cock-waving nonsense’?”

“Yes,” said Draco, “Also –“

“And,” said Augusta, ignoring Draco completely, “She said that you couldn’t ‘play toy soldiers with these children on the Quidditch pitch’?”

“Yes,” said Draco, “You see –“

“No Mr Malfoy,” said Augusta Longbottom, “I do _not_ see. I only see a sensible young woman trying to do her job and take care of children while you, a wastrel – no don’t argue with me Mr Malfoy, I know your yearly income is twenty thousand Galleons a year and that you spend half of it on fixing your bald patch, your mother complains of it frequently and loudly – it is quite useless and that money would be better spent invested in the Malfoy farms than on the Malfoy hair  – danced about in your fancy robes, getting in everyone’s way and threatening to sue them over it –“

“But,” said Draco.

“ _And_ ,” Augusta Longbottom continued, “When they insisted Slytherin was cheating, you claimed you would sue them. Ridiculous.”

She snorted, removed her reading glasses, folded them and placed them on her table.

“Slytherin has _always_ cheated,” she told him, “When I was a child and in school, they cheated. When your mother was in school, they cheated. They cheated when you were in school. And now they are cheating while your son is in school. They will always cheat. They are Slytherins, that is what they do –“

Draco opened his mouth, but was cut off before he could continue.

“Frankly Mr Malfoy,” she said, collecting her papers and standing up, “I have a good mind to fine you for wasting the court’s time. My only regret is that I cannot fine you for wasting the times of the witnesses, Mr Goldstein and Mr Krum, as well. Good day.”

* * *

In the end, he wasn’t even called up to demonstrate how fickle a character Draco Malfoy was. He could have  _told_ Zach as much; there wasn’t a damn member of the Wizengamot who wasn’t personally acquainted (or related) to Draco Malfoy in one way or the other. He could have spent this morning clearing up the Percy Weasley business instead of kicking his heels outside courtroom number fifteen.

And the worst part was that Zach was utterly unrepentant about the matter.

“Come now Ant,” Zacharias said, “Better safe than sorry. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Anthony replied peevishly, “I want my time back – no, scratch that, I want you lot to leave me alone instead of dumping all your midlife crises on me and expecting me to solve them for you –“

“Midlife crises?” Zacharias asked him, genuinely shocked at the thought.

“What,” said Anthony, “Do you call your problems with Justin?”

“Oh,” said Zacharias, gently and inexorably propelling Anthony towards the Leaky Cauldron, “That. So last week. Justin’s taken up yoga.”

Anthony decided he was better off not knowing how that all fit together with the shiteating grin on Zach’s face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of Code Reds the wizarding world does emergencies in Code Greens - the colour of the Avada Kedavra when it leaves a person's wand.


	8. Chapter 8

> **TROUBLE IN PARADISE?**
> 
> They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but it may be more accurate to say hell hath no fury like a lioness reminded her cub is only a badger. Last night at the Greengrass charity auction in Little Hexing, Ginny Potter punched both her husband and fellow journalist Zacharias Smith in their faces before storming off in a huff after a spat over the upcoming Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match in which the younger Potter siblings will be playing against each other. Anyone even vaguely intimate with Mr Smith will tell you that the urge to punch him is not an unusual one, so we can only assume this means that the Potter-Weasley marriage is on the rocks as the Boy-Who-Lived mellows with old age. A few sparks should reignite that old missing fire, Mr Potter: the couple that fights together stays together.

From: _The Sol_ 13 March 2024

* * *

Cedric Cadwallader was the sort of bloke who was very easy to envy, in Albus Potter's opinion. He was a fit bloke; broad shoulders, nice thighs and really nice hands (excellent for Quaffle-catching). He was always excessively pleasant and was mostly of sunny disposition except when confronted with a bevy of cheating Slytherins which was understandable; Albus thought he showed a remarkable amount of forbearance when dealing with Slytherins. If Albus had been Cedric, Albus would have hexed them all to hell and back again. He was also about as popular with Hufflepuff as his namesake used to be - if his father’s reminiscences were anything to go by - which is to say there wasn't a single Hufflepuff who didn't have some sort of crush on him.

Albus wasn't entirely sure that this was limited to Hufflepuff either.

Not that he would _ever_ contemplate a fellow Quidditch captain as anything but a rival. House pride and all that.

Anyway, the point was that Cedric was generally enviable as far as looks and personality went and now, as if that wasn't enough, he was blessed with parents who were wise enough to stay out of school Quidditch and let well alone. Which was more than he could say about his mum and dad. Who were being particularly annoying this year. Something to do with the Malfoys, their hydrangeas and the Parkinsons' garden show.

It simply wasn't fair. Some people had all the luck.

Strange, then, that Cedric Cadwallader envied Albus Severus Potter for precisely the same reasons; a fact Albus discovered a week before the Hufflepuff-Gryffindor match.

"You're lucky," he told Cedric, as they strolled towards the castle together after their Herbology lesson, "My parents are mental. Punching someone over school Quidditch - I mean, who _does_ that? And then as if that wasn't enough they had to go and saddle us with Wood and we have to be nice to him because he's taken time off his Quidditch World Cup planning activities just to train us."

Cedric laughed bitterly, startling Albus. He hadn't thought the man capable of an emotion as lowly as bitterness.

"At least you've only got to worry about Wood," he replied, "I've got Smith and Macmillan giving us conflicting advice while Truman tries to play referee and smooth things out. I wouldn't mind punching Smith myself, y'know?"

"Adults," said Albus grumpily, "Absolutely mental."

"You'd think they'd set better examples for us."

"You'd think they'd learn to grow up and leave petty school rivalries behind."

They slouched along in companionable silence, contemplating the immaturity of the various adults in their lives.

"You know," said Cedric speculatively, a few minutes later, “I’m beginning to think we ought to teach them a lesson.”

Albus looked pensively up at the sky.

“You know, Cadwallader,” he said slowly, “I think you might be onto something.”

* * *

“It’s ridiculous,” said Ginny, for the tenth time that morning.

“It’s not ridiculous,” said Hermione, “It’s a free country and people are allowed to send their children to Hogwarts if they want to. I think it’s rather nice. Cultural exchange is an excellent way of exposing children to viewpoints that challenge their own.”

“It’s ridiculous,” said Harry, in perfect agreement with his wife.

“It’s all very well to talk about cultural exchange,” said Ron, “But this is _Quidditch_.”

“Well it’s not like Neville could tell Viktor he couldn’t send his daughter to Hogwarts,” snapped Hermione, “At least he acts his age, unlike some people I could name.”

“God,” said Ginny, “Can you even hear yourself?”

“I mean I like Krum,” Harry continued, blithely unaware that the conversation had moved on to dissecting Hermione’s ridiculously unattainable levels of perfection, “Great guy, fantastic Seeker. But you have to be fair, Hermione, it gives Hufflepuff an unfair advantage.”

“It’s just a _sport_ Harry.”

“Perfect Granger,” said Ginny, “With her perfect opinions and her perfect temper.”

“No need to get personal,” said Ron turning on his sister, “You’d be saying the same thing as Hermione if the kid was a Gryffindor.”

“It’s not just a sport,” said Harry, animated, all of a sudden, “It’s _Quidditch_.”

“If you don’t like it, don’t bother coming,” said Ginny, ignoring Ron’s accurate assessment of her sentiments, “Don’t shove your opinions on multiculturalism and cultural exchange down everyone’s throats just because some sodding Quidditch hunk ex-flame of yours moved to England 'cos he didn't want his kid learning dark magic.”

"Krum's brilliant," said Ron, nettled, "And besides, Hermione married _me."_

"That is a little below the belt, Gin," said Harry, "Besides it's good he doesn't want his kids being exposed to that kind of stuff."

"Merlin's bloody _beard_ ," she said, "Why don't you all just go and suck on Krum's bloody cock if you're all so keen on him?"

"Come along Ron," said Hermione coldly, standing up and smoothing out her robes in what Ginny thought was a particularly offensive manner, "I want to talk to Neville about the upcoming changes to the Muggle Studies curriculum."

"You know," said Harry, when Hermione and Ron had left, "Maybe you shouldn't have punched Smith - I mean, it can't be good for Lily, can it? Being in Hufflepuff. And you like this."

"Like what?"

"Well," he said uncomfortably, "Like this. Punching people. We're not young enough for it."

"Maybe _you_ aren't; I don't feel a day older than twenty."

"Well," said Harry, bravely soldiering on like the Gryffindor he was, "I'm just _saying_ -"

“Lily’s smart enough to understand about house pride,” said Ginny, “Besides it was _you_ , acting like a child about your bloody hydrangeas and your Malfoy which started all of this -”

“He’s not _my_ Malfoy -”

“I wouldn’t have known, the way you go on about him.”

“I’m just _saying_ -”

“All right,” said Ginny, cutting him off.

“All right,” said Harry, at a loss now that the prospect of a good and proper argument had been taken away from him, “All right.”

* * *

Tracey was starting to come around to Justin Finch-Fletchley’s point of view. It was not as though Zach wasn’t the most solid of mates - he was, and infinitely more reliable than Daphne, who was apt to conveniently lose letters in the mail whenever Tracey was in a fix - but he was  _also_ a generally unpleasant person when he decided he was tired of being nice. Quidditch, unfortunately, had a bad habit of bringing out that particular perversity in him and Tracey had forgotten just how  _annoying_ it made him. Slapping him seemed more and more enticing with each passing moment.

“So how does it feel,” he was saying, “To be a defector and support the Dread House?”

“How does it feel being knocked out by Ginny Weasley in public?” she asked him, smiling sweetly.

Justin snorted and then hastily turned that into a cough.

“I wasn’t knocked out,” said Zacharias, “I merely closed my eyes for a moment to reorient myself.”

“It’s nice weather today isn’t it?” said Justin, hastily cutting off the argument before it could begin, “Sunny and just the right amount of warm - it’s so rare to get days like this here. So nice for the children.”

Tracey grinned.

“I do hope they’ll be nicer than the other matches,” Justin continued, determinedly soldiering on even though Tracey opened her mouth to say something, “Did you hear about Ravenclaw and Slytherin? Michael said it was a bloodbath. I think that’s terrible. I mean, sports are terribly important - _esprit de corps_ and all that - but I do draw the line at physical injury and then there was the whole affair with the Wizengamot too which isn’t very _esprit de corps_ now is it?”

“All right Justin,” said Zacharias, lips twitching, “You win.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen garrulousness be used as a conflict resolution technique before,” Tracey murmured.

“No I suppose not,” Justin agreed, “But I really don’t like how violent these matches get. It can’t be healthy for the children.”

“Nonsense,” said Zacharias indignantly, “It’s good for their moral fibre - prepares them to face the real world.”

“GO GRYFFINDOR!” yelled Tracey, as Fred Weasley II tossed the Quaffle through their hoops.

“And Fred scores for Gryffindor,” said Mick Jordan over the megaphone, “Ten points to Gryffindor! Good old Fred!”

“If all that violence is good for moral fibre, I don’t understand how it produced Malfoy and Bole and Derrick. Not to mention you,” said Justin.

“I can’t believe you’d compare me to that sod Bole.”

“Well,” said Justin reasonably, “Bole would have never done half the things he’d done if you hadn’t taken it into your head to get him fired in the first place on behalf of my honour or whatever half-arsed ideas sail through your head.”

“Oh look,” said Zacharias loudly, “It's the Hufflepuff Squad.”

Justin covered his face with his hands, as both Harry and Ginny turned around in their seats and glared up at Zacharias.

“Oh,” said Harry disparagingly, “It’s you.”

“I’ll punch you in the face again,” said Ginny, “If you don’t shut up.”

“And Lily Potter dodges a bludger from Rose Weasley,” Mick Jordan’s excitable voice rang out through the stands, “She scores for Hufflepuff bringing them neck and neck with Gryffindor - _come on you sods_ \- sorry Professor Longbottom -”

“Nice match, isn’t it?” said Zacharias, “Lily looks _great_ in Hufflepuff robes, you know?”

“Nice weather for Quidditch isn’t it?” said Justin, smiling feebly at Harry and Ginny, as one of the Gryffindor chasers chucked the Quaffle through their hoops, “Gryffindor’s playing awfully well today, aren’t they?”

Harry eyed Justin suspiciously. Ginny simply snorted.

“Your son’s terrible at strategy,” said Zacharias, “But then you wouldn’t expect a _Gryffindor_ to understand about the importance of a strong line of defence, would you? You ought to be glad Lily’s playing for Hufflepuff.”

“Sorry we actually have talent,” snapped Harry.

“What he means is,” said Justin desperately, “Is that -”

“Exactly what I say -”

“- ten points to Hufflepuff, _come on Potter_ -”

“Hang on,” said Tracey, though neither Justin nor Zacharias was currently listening to her, “That’s odd.”

“Remember when I chucked you out of the Quidditch stands back in fifth year?” said Ginny.

“All brash talent and no hard work,” said Zacharias, ignoring this unpleasant reminder, “That’s the Gryffindor way, isn’t it? But at least there’s _one_ Potter who’ll learn to be a decent citizen -”

“SCUM,” Tracey shouted all of a sudden, standing up in her seat and waving her scarf angrily, “WANKERS. CHEATS.”

Justin squeaked as she clambered over him.

“Oi,” said Harry, grabbing at his glasses as Tracey unceremoniously climbed over him as well to get to the edge of the box.

She whirled around and grabbed him forcefully by the lapels of his robes, once again knocking his glasses askew.

“They’re _cheating_ ,” she hissed at Harry, “Your _bastard son’s_ a filthy cheat and Gryffindor’s losing because of it.”

* * *

All things considered, thought Albus, this wasn’t a bad way to go. His mother and Zacharias Smith looked like they were preparing to duel in the stands and Tracey Davis looked as though she was about hurl his dad off the stands but as far as he was concerned this was the best damn match of his life. Stress free and genuinely enjoyable. He didn’t care if Oliver Wood was in tears, for the first time in seven years he’d remembered why he loved Quidditch and it was everything to do with the exhilaration of the chase and not, you know, the actual point scoring. That was great. Flying and dodging bludgers and keen Hufflepuff chasers - a very strong team, despite all of Smith and Macmillan’s meddling - and just the sheer bloody thrill of the wind in his hair was far better.

It wasn’t even as though it was intentional. They’d only agreed to behave like gentlemen, because they were Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and it was their duty to show the school what moral fibre looked like, _especially_ in the wake of that last disastrous match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Damn snakes, always turned matches into bloodbaths. Albus was looking forward to the last match of the year: they’d show them what was what. Hufflepuff was in a league of its own. They were all just so _fair_ about everything, one couldn’t _help_ but play by the rules. Friendly jostling was all right, so long as they’d all be able to shake each others’ hands at the end of the match and part as friends. _Esprit de corps_ and all that. The Minister would be proud of them; he was always nattering on about it.

Albus grinned at Harry Selwyn and received a watery smile in return. The Quaffle sailed through the hoop. Cassidy Davies peered curiously at Albus and Albus smiled innocently at him, saving a much rather broader smile for Cedric.

Cedric Cadwallader was in fine form today. So was his sister, for that matter. The Hufflepuffs really knew how to pull together as a team. He wished Douglas Finnigan-Thomas would learn from them sometimes, instead of attempting to take impossible shots and failing.

“You know,” said Shavonne Davis, materializing out of nowhere just behind Albus’ left ear, “My mum thinks you’re deliberately trying to throw the match.”

“Bloody hell Davis,” he said, “I’ve told you not to do that.”

“Sorry,” she replied, “But I thought you ought to know you’ll be meeting the angry parents committee aka your mum after the match.”

“Not if you catch the Snitch,” he answered, “Which you know, shouldn’t you be watching for it?”

She stuck her tongue out at him and just as abruptly as she’d materialized behind him, she’d disappeared and reappeared thirty feet above the rest of them.

Albus glanced at the stands, where his mum had apparently now cast her infamous Bat Bogey Hex on Smith.

 _Better Smith than me_ , he thought.

* * *

Viktor Krum was enjoying himself. It was very rare to find two Quidditch teams that were so closely matched in talent  _and_ in moral fibre. Not that one ever found teams who knew what it was to play cleanly nowadays. Of course, he knew the power of strategic fouling; he’d used it himself, even. His own  _daughter_ had used it (but he felt that that was only fair, up against players who put even league players to shame in their cheating). Nevertheless it still pleased the pure Quidditch loving parts of his soul to see a proper game in which the players actually relied on talent to score them points and not brute strength. This was the sport as it ought to be played.  If he could have, he would have captured it in a bottle and saved them to show the ICWQC and FIQA who seemed to have forgotten that Quidditch was not about money. Or to comfort himself with it after being forced to watch a particularly disastrous match.

Of course this meant admitting that the Seeker for Gryffindor was as good as his own daughter. Viktor was not entirely sure he wanted to do that.

“Who is the girl, the Seeker for your team?” he asked Hermione, as he watched her flit from one end of the field to another like a tiny ball of red lightning.

“That's Shavonne Davis,” she replied, “She’s in the same year as Marya, I think. They must have classes together. Herbology, at the very least.”

“Her mum was a Slytherin,” Ron added unnecessarily, because in his opinion that was vital information that Hermione was withholding from Viktor, which would inalienably alter his opinion on Shavonne Davis.  He received a dig in his ribcage from Hermione for his efforts.

“She's very good - very quick,” Viktor observed, “I would be proud to have her as my own daughter.”

“Well I think Davis might have a thing or two to say about that,” Ron muttered underneath his breath.

It earned him yet another dig in his ribcage.

“Herbology, you said,” said Viktor thoughtfully, “And the same year?”

“Yes,” said Hermione distractedly, her attention currently directed at her offspring who looked as though her head was about to be smashed in by a Bludger.

“Interesting,” said Viktor.

He looked back at the field with new interest.

* * *

Harry set his glasses straight. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Zacharias Smith hex Ginny with a schoolboy’s jinx - Jelly Legs, he thought - and Justin jump up and get between them. That was very nice and also very stupid of him; Harry could have told him that it was always best to let Ginny have her fight and besides, Smith was a complete arse who deserved the worst of Ginny’s temper. Unless, of course, Justin enjoyed being martyred. Harry suspected Justin enjoyed being martyred sometimes. A lot was made of his muggleborn-ness in his various election campaigns. Maybe he’d find a way to make something of this - inter-house cooperation? Reasons for abolishing the house system? Something radical that Hermione was bound to support and draft up six million legislations for, which  _he’d_ then have to enforce.

He turned back to face the Slytherin, determined to set things straight with her.

“You’re wrong,” he said, fixing her with his most impressive glare, the one he saved for Slytherins, Death Eaters and dark wizards, “Take that back.”

Tracey was unfazed by his impressive glare. Slytherins, as a rule, usually cultivated a range of glares that were infinitely more impressive than the glares of law enforcers.

“Your son's cheating,” she said, “He's going to toss the match for Gryffindor; they're taking turns at scoring -”

It was perhaps unfortunate that Albus Potter chose that moment to score for Gryffindor. The stands erupted in cheers and Harry Potter attempted to glare even more impressively at Tracey Davis.

“My son,” he said, in what he supposed was a show of blatant skepticism, “My son who just scored.”

“Your son,” she said, enunciating the words very slowly as though she was talking to a very small child, “Is cheating. The match is fixed. Do you need me to go over this again?”

“No I got it the first time,” he replied, “I was just hoping you’d realize how ridiculous you sound if I made you repeat it enough.”

“You think I’m _lying_ ,” she said, incredulously and then grabbed him by his elbow, dragging him towards the edge of their box.

“Let go of me -”

“Look,” she said, refusing to let go of her grip on Harry’s elbow, “Just watch. Hufflepuff’s going to capture the Quaffle and score now.”

“And GRYFFINDOR SCORES!” cried Mick Jordan, as Douglas Thomas-Finnigan shot the Quaffle through the hoops from an angle that should have been impossible to score from.

Harry pulled away from Tracey.

“Well soon anyway,” she amended, before Harry could say anything, “We’re not all pathological liars down in Slytherin.”

“You’re wrong,” Harry replied, “My son’s not a cheat. He’d never do this to Gryffindor.”

“ _Men_ ,” said Tracey, as though that explained everything, “So _blind_.”

“What?” Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted at the world around him, trying to pick out whatever it was that Tracey was seeing that he wasn’t.

“It’s so _obvious_ , isn’t it?” Tracey continued, “Your son. He fancies the Hufflepuff captain.”

“What,” said Harry, but it was not a question.

“I mean he keeps looking at him,” she said, “Like Zach and Justin did during their two year long mating ritual.”

“ _What_ ,” said Harry.

“- Cedric Cadwallader dodges past Potter and Dougie to score another ten points for Hufflepuff, bringing the score to an even 80 points each - _THERE GO THE SEEKERS! GO DAVIS! GO GRYFFINDOR!_ ”

“Ugh,” said Tracey, turning away from Harry, “ _Men_.”

“ _What_ ,” said Harry to himself.

* * *

It wasn’t entirely fair that Shavonne was as good as she was or that Marya had to play against her. Scorpius Malfoy was the sort of person you could unrepentantly shove in the mud and feel as though you’d done a good deed, if only because it would infuriate his dad. Shavonne, on the other hand, was a friend and everyone knew Quidditch could make or break friendships. It was an unspoken maxim on their various teams. No cross-team dating, no cross-team friendships. It only ever ended in tears.

Marya wasn’t sure when it had become an unspoken rule but she felt it had to do with the way Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley had once encouraged a Hippogriff - Ruth had called it ‘a practical lesson in phobia management and besides it was the dearest little creature imaginable, daddy can we keep it?’- to maul Lily Potter the afternoon before Hufflepuff played Slytherin, two years ago. Lily and Ruth, naturally, had never spoken ever since. And then there was the case of the Slytherin and Ravenclaw seeker, much before her time, which no one spoke about except in ominous capital letters and with the phrase ‘breach of promise’ bandied about in hushed tones and even bigger capital letters. They all stood as testaments to the dangers of cross-team friendships. So really, it was Marya’s fault for letting her good nature get the better of her and giving in to the temptation to befriend Shavonne over their various plants.

She just wasn’t sure what she was going to do when she caught the Snitch.

* * *

“You know,” said Viktor, to Hermione, “She writes to me a lot, Marya. About that girl.”

“Oh are they friends?” Hermione asked him politely.

“Hmmm,” Viktor replied cryptically.

* * *

Shavonne told herself sharply that it was silly to feel awkward about catching the Snitch as she and Marya hurtled towards it.

Marya would understand. Marya played Quidditch. They’d shake hands like gentlemen - _gentlefolk_ , her mother’s voice said very firmly - and they’d go back to collecting Gillyweed together. No bad blood. Everything a-okay.

The niggling little voice in her head told her it would definitely not be okay and also, that this meant Shavonne would grow up and raise twenty cats in a little flat alone in London.

* * *

Albus Potter almost felt bad thinking it, but it  _was_ such an exciting chase - Davis and Krum zipping all over the sky, just a streak of yellow and red. Not that he was watching because clearly, he was scoring points for Gryffindor. But Mick Jordan was very entertaining to listen to.

“The Snitch heads towards the stands and Krum and Davis follow, _EVERYBODY DUCK_ -”

From the corner of his eye, Albus saw the sea of red and yellow flatten and then rise as the two Seekers skimmed along the top at high speed.

He only hoped that Davis would buck up and get the damn thing over with because being not quite sandwiched between Cedric and that Frobisher girl (very attractive blonde, very nice legs) was not as pleasant as it sounded.

* * *

It was time for drastic action, in Justin’s opinion. It really was too bad of Zach. It was impossible to take him anywhere as a result. There was no telling with whom he’d decide to get into a fight. If Justin had had any sense he’d have never mended their engagement at the behest of a strange old man with a monocle who insisted that Zach snogging the muggle PM (the one who’d fucked a pig, of all the PMs to snog) was not cause to believe that Zach would ever give him trouble. But then, as both Ernie and Zach kept telling him, for very different reasons, he was too naive and had a horrible tendency to believe in the best of everyone, which was why he’d believed that absurd story about love potions, angry Scotsmen and Marcus Flint and then the strange old man who reminded him vaguely of a character out of those books by that author his sister Marjory was always reading. Then again, in the words of that author, it was a mistake to confuse the impossible with the improbable. Particularly where Zacharias Smith was concerned.

It was all very frustrating.

“Look,” cried Justin, pointing at the tiny flashing gold point in the sky, “The Snitch - they’re going to catch it!”

“Where?” Zacharias and Ginny cried together, wands no longer at the ready, “Who?”

“There,” said Justin.

And at that moment the two Seekers converged on the Snitch, from opposite directions.

* * *

Marya grinned at Shavonne.

It was going to be okay.

“Together?” said Marya, reaching out.

Marya felt wobbly inside when Shavonne smiled back at her as their hands clasped around the Snitch.

* * *

“ _CHEATS!_ ” bellowed Mick Jordan, “ _CHEATS! LIARS! BASTARDS!_ Sorry Professor Longbottom -  _SHARKS! WANKERS! SLAG!_ ”

“Michael Theophilus Jordan,” everyone heard Neville Longbottom say, “If you cannot control your tongue -”

“You saw her professor! The Snitch! Together! It’s _unfair_ , it’s like _Slytherin_ \- no it’s _worse_ than Slytherin - this is why we shouldn’t let foreign talent -”

“I’m sorry to say,” Neville Longbottom said calmly, as a Silencio’d Mick Jordan eyed him angrily, “That Mr Jordan is no longer available for commentary and will not be available for commentary till the end of this year. Congratulations to both the teams and particularly to Misses Davis and Krum for a well-played match. And may I remind everyone that intolerance and hatred, even over petty things like Quidditch, mingled with xenophobia is precisely what was responsible for two wizarding wars, and is _not tolerated_ at Hogwarts. Thank you.”

* * *

“I’m glad,” said Shavonne, “I like you, you know? You’re a brick, Krum.”

“Thanks,” said Marya, “I like you too. Will you go to Hogsmeade with me next time?”

Shavonne beamed at Marya, “I’d like that.”

* * *

Tracey gave in and slapped Zacharias. It was really too bad of him. Besides, she’d seen the way Shavonne smiled at Marya. Good for Shavonne, first romance and all that. Really, Zacharias shouldn’t have insinuated that her daughter was Delilah in disguise. She hexed Ginny too, for good measure, when Ginny said something about snakes in bosoms.  _Her daughter_ . As  _if_ .

Harry and Justin both looked very misty-eyed and sentimental in a doe-eyed sort of way that made Tracey queasy, so Tracey left them well alone.

* * *

“My mum was furious,” Albus told Cedric much later, “My dad went on about something that happened to him when he was in fourth year and gave Shavonne chocolates. Weird.”

“Weird,” Cedric agreed, “He gave Marya chocolates too. The Minister told us something about _esprit de corps_ and young romance and how we embodied it. And then he looked at Smith all funny and Smith went straight from being roaringly furious to being docile as a lamb - I don’t understand it.”

“ _Adults_ ,” said Albus.

“Adults,” Cedric agreed.

They sat together in companionable silence as the rest of their housemates consumed all the butterbeer and firewhiskey they’d stockpiled in anticipation for their respective teams winning. Marya Krum was still beaming from ear to ear, still holding on to Shavonne’s hand. Albus wondered if she’d let go after they’d caught the Snitch at all. He sneaked a glance at Cedric. Cadwallader was beaming at the two Seekers like a fond parent. It was yet another reason to be envious of him. He even managed to make looking fatherly attractive.

Merlin he sounded like those girls in those TV shows Rosie and Hugo watched all the time with their dad.

“So,” he said, raking a hand through his hair, “You know. I was thinking - hypothetically - what if -”

“Spit it out, Potter,” Cedric advised him.

“Well you know,” said Albus, “You’re a fit bloke and I’m a fit bloke so you know -”

He trailed off and looked at Cedric meaningfully. Cedric eyed him doubtfully, before the pieces suddenly clicked into place.

“Do you mean ‘young romance’?” Cedric asked him kindly.

“Yes,” said Albus, “Yes I do.”

“Good,” Cedric replied, “So do I.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confusing the impossible with the improbable is from various works by P G Wodehouse, as are the books Justin’s sister Marjory reads. The strange old man is none other than Benjamin Rupert Smith, a not very subtle insert of Wodehouse’s character ‘Psmith’ into the HPverse.


	9. Chapter 9

“The thing is old boy,” drawled the first masked figure, “We’ve got our orders and you’ve got yours, but we’re asking you civilly, one gentleman to another, to reconsider your orders - for your sake, you understand.”

“Dashed inconvenient, I understand, but you know how it is - people who don’t know how to take no for an answer - impossible for us to go back with the _wrong_ answer,” said masked figure number two, “Dreadfully unsporting, but one must make a living somehow.”

“I don’t think you understand,” said Viktor Krum, “I have no control - these matches, they are played and decided on the spot -”

“Zounds,” said the first masked figure, “You’d think we’d asked him for the sun, moon and stars, not an amiable player.”

“Reprehensible,” agreed the second masked figure, “Devilish unsporting.”

“This is cheating,” said Krum, “You are asking me to fix a match.”

“Devil take it, Hellgate,” said the first masked figure pulling out an elegant pearl and silver duelling pistol and aiming it at Krum’s head, “They’re all boiled turnipheads nowadays.”

“I say,” said the second masked figure and then he pulled down his scarf, revealing a thin and youthful face that shone a sickly papery white in the moonlight as though all the blood and the life had been drained out of his face. He glared at his fellow footpad.

“We’re not _actually_ footpads,” he informed his companion, “We’re _gentlemen_.”

“Vampires,” said Krum, “I know you -”

The first masked figure obligingly pulled his scarf down and smiled nastily, revealing his fangs, “Quite lovely, aren’t they? Haven’t used them in nearly a century. Of course, I’d be glad to start now -”

“Oh Newgate,” sighed the vampire footpad called Hellgate.

“I’m telling you,” said Krum, “I have no control -”

“We’re not asking for _control_ , old boy,” said Newgate, “Just a friendly nudge, an obliging player -”

“But I keep telling you,” said Krum, “I cannot -”

“Well dash it all,” said Hellgate, “You’re Viktor Krum, aren’t you? International Quidditch superstar and all that? Damn it, in my day your lot used to have a lot more gumption.”

“This is the twenty-first century,” said Viktor.

“Quidditch,” declared Hellgate, “Is timeless.”

“Why don’t we shoot his foot?” demanded Newgate, “Then I can drink the blood instead of listening to you two jawing away.”

“Dash it _all_ , Newgate.”

“It’s not sporting,” said Krum.

“Would never have settled for it personally, in my day,” said Hellgate, “ Despicable. Goes against one’s sensibilities. But one has to make a living.Used to be an Earl, don’t you know? Imagine _my_ plight. _Reduced_ to penury. Reduced to _this_ -”

He paused, thoroughly overcome with emotion at the thought of his penury.

Viktor Krum was thoroughly unimpressed by this speech, but it was not for no reason that he had been instrumental in smuggling muggleborns and their families out of England during the second wizarding war and so he did not show just how unimpressed he was.

“I don’t know any of the players,” he pointed out, “I am retired now. I consult, sometimes - FIQA, ICQWC, sometimes the Ministry -”

“Oh,” said Hellgate, looking nonplussed, “Oh dear.”

“Nonsense,” said Newgate, waving his pistol around dangerously, “He’s lying. I saw him talking with one of the fellows last week.”

“Oh _dear_ ,” said Hellgate, pulling out a pearl-handled knife that Krum was fairly certain had begun life as a letter-opener, “I _hate_ liars.”

* * *

Anthony Goldstein slid into the black car - a Jag, the unofficial official vehicle for all top Ministry employees and visiting dignitaries - beside a dignified and very official looking sallow-faced man with a beard and a trilby hat. It was not the kind of face one could remember or pick out in a crowd. Perfect for a spy’s face. His name - well Anthony was not certain about his name. His name  _today_ was Ivan Mikhailovich Zagadkov, but there was no telling what it might be tomorrow, or if he would even have exactly the same face tomorrow. No one knew what his title was or what he did in the Russian Ministry, only that there were precisely forty three photographs in which his face had been circled by Mark from comms - all of them grainy in which he could barely be picked out from the shadows behind the Russian Minister for Magic - that he had full diplomatic immunity and that W had left express instructions that he was to be watched at all times. At all costs. The whole thing made Anthony feel very comfortably Cold War-esque and dashing.

“You must understand,” he told Anthony in impeccable and unaccented English that marked precisely how foreign he was, “That we are strongly committed to the ideals of good governance and bureaucratic efficiency.”

“Of course,” said Anthony, “Britain commends your dedication. We have been, after all, equally committed to these ideals since Minister Orpington’s Big Society Act of 1854.”

“Quite,” said Ivan, “Then you will understand our Minister's natural distaste for all waste of all resources.”

“Naturally,” Anthony replied, “And we laud your Minister for his concerns -”

“So then we understand each other,” said Ivan.

“We do?” Anthony asked him cautiously.

Ivan smiled. In a book, Anthony would have felt shivers down his spine. As it were, Anthony simply thought that smiling made the man look ridiculous. It did not fit with his beard. It did not even make him look diabolical. Just very silly.

“I have it on very good authority,” said Ivan, when it was clear that Anthony refused to be menaced, “That there are certain, let's call them ‘elements’, currently residing and operating within your borders, who happen to be interfering with our er, well-oiled system. Impeding our government, to be precise. Those elements must be stopped, Mr Goldstein.”

“Ah,” said Anthony. This clearly fell within the purview of ‘sovereignty issues’ which meant his answer was very simple. “I’m afraid that that will be quite impossible, at the moment - the Minister -”

“ _I_ am afraid that _you_ do not understand.” Ivan continued, cutting him off, “Our Minister is determined that all obstacles in our path be, er, removed as it were. He expects that a government so dedicated to reforming its practices should be more than willing to cooperate with its international counterparts to enable _them_ to do their jobs with ease. Do you understand that, Mr Goldstein?”

“The British Minister believes deeply in international magical cooperation,” Anthony said, picking his words very carefully, “I believe he will be more than happy to make the time to set up and conduct a full inquiry into the matter -”

“You misunderstand me, Mr Goldstein,” said Ivan, “I am not offering you a choice but a certainty. There _are_ elements intent on obstruction. They will be removed. We will not be interfered with. Do I make my meaning clear?”

Anthony drummed his fingers on the seat of the car, out of the sight of the man, unwilling to let him know that this conversation rattled him and that even worse, he had no idea what the subject in question was about. It helped, he found, to know what one was discussing beforehand. It was quite likely that this was one of those off-the-record conversations in which everyone fenced at cross-purposes and one hoped devoutly that one had protected one’s country’s interests reasonably decently. The more he thought about it, the more certain he felt that this _was_ one of those off-the-record conversations and what was more, that it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime off-the-record conversations that everyone dreamt of having until they actually had one - at which point they wished they’d never had one at all.

In fact, Anthony Goldstein was fairly certain that he was being threatened. _Only he did not know about what_.

“Is that a threat, Mr Zagadkov?” he asked the man quietly, as the car pulled to a stop on the side of the tiny road between King’s Cross and St Pancras.

“No Mr Goldstein,” Ivan Mikhailovich Zagadkov replied, “It’s a promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellgate and Newgate are, respectively, references to the 7th Earl of Barrymore and his younger brother, Augustus – also, hence, the archaic manner of speech.


	10. Chapter 10

> **FINANCE AND SPORTS COLLIDE ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCHES OF HOGWARTS**
> 
> The heir to the last of the great Scottish families, Ernie Macmillan, has mortgaged several wings of Castle Macmillan, an early 13th century stronghold in the Highland countryside. It is not believed that the Macmillan clan is in any considerable financial distress—rather, that this carelessness has been brought on, as has so much other scandal of late, by Hogwarts Quidditch. Our sources suggest that Macmillan has been scrounging up as much money as he can to provide the Hufflepuff Quidditch team with cutting-edge gear and equipment, perhaps as a rival move to entrepreneur Michael Corner, who has been providing the Ravenclaw team with similar accoutrements for some time now. As the two teams face one another soon, it should prove interesting to see whether this financial frippery has paid off.

From: _The Wixenomist_ , 8 – 14 May 2023

 

* * *

 

Of all the places Anthony Goldstein expected to be, back at Hogwarts was not one of them. But, his daughter Honoria was commentating on the Quidditch match, and he could hardly miss it. Honoria had not yet had the honour of commentating—that always fell to the more exuberant and passionate students—but she was passionate in her own way, and from what Anthony had heard, Hogwarts could do with a bit of calm around its Quidditch pitch.

Of all the things Anthony expected to happen while he waited for the match to start, breaking up a fight between Michael Corner and Ernie Macmillan was _definitely_ not one of them—although, in hindsight, it was almost inevitable.

“You have _not_ been playing fairly,” Ernie was shouting when Anthony arrived, husband Gabriel in tow. “All of your little schemes—”

“Just because you’re not as _creative_ as I am,” Michael sniped.

“They’re Ponzi schemes!” Ernie said hysterically. “Why can’t you _say it_?”

“I only speak the truth,” Michael said, holding out his palms. “Listen, Ernie, let’s settle this like gentlemen—”

At this point, a third voice piped in: that of Zacharias Smith, agent provocateur. “With a duel!” he suggested with an almost childlike glee.

“No, _not_ with a duel,” Ernie snapped. “I am at my wit’s end, I’ve mortgaged wings of my castle and I’ve poured all I can into the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and still you taunt me— _kevlar uniforms_? Really, Michael? What difference will that even make?”

“It’s light and aerodynamic,” Michael explained. “Be prepared to be out-seeked by the finest.”

“That doesn’t even make _sense_ ,” Ernie said.

Anthony decided that now was a good time to step in. “Actually, kevlar is lighter than the regular padding on Quidditch uniforms. Also, you’re both acting like babies. This is just Hogwarts Quidditch, for Merlin’s sake, and you’re _adults_ , in case you’d forgotten.”

Duly chastised, Michael shrunk back a bit, but Ernie still looked like the very unfortunate child of a tomato and an over-inflated balloon.

“Now that we’ve cleared that up,” Anthony said, “are we ready to watch the match?”

“Quite ready,” Ernie said, stalking off. Michael followed at a clip, clearly still thinking about his ingenious move in buying kevlar uniforms, which, to be fair, was quite a good idea.

This left Anthony standing with Gabriel and Zacharias. “Well,” Zacharias said, “that’s a good bit of fun.”

“Why don’t I like your phrasing,” Anthony mused.

“Probably because he’s been stirring this pot for weeks,” Gabriel muttered.

“Just call me the chef,” Zacharias said. Anthony thought he was unfairly cheerful, and wondered how he, too, could learn to take such glee in making misfortune for his friends.

“Irresponsible,” Anthony said, mostly to himself.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Zacharias asked.

“Honoria’s doing commentary today,” Anthony said. “I’m quite excited to hear her.”

Zacharias narrowed his eyes. “Is this your daughter the nihilist?”

“Oh, no,” Anthony said, “she’s an absurdist now.”

 

* * *

 

“Once more unto the breach,” Anthea Greengrass-Nott said, “dear friends, once more.”

“It’s a wonder,” Lysander Scamander said, “anyone would think you were nervous for our last match of the year.”

Anthea gave him a sharp look. If looks could kill, Lysander would already be lying wounded on the battlefield. “I’m _annoyed_ ,” she said. “I know we have to play by the rules now, and I know Hufflepuff wouldn’t _dream_ of cheating—”

“They did fix their last match,” Dante Yaxley pointed out mildly.

“—so it’s _unsportsmanlike_ for us to do the same thing,” Anthea finished. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to kick them all up the arse, though.”

“How _unladylike_ ,” Doris Cornfoot quipped.

“You’re eighth,” Anthea said.

“Play nice,” Lysander said, trying to keep the strained hint out of his voice. “We have a match to win. Fair and square.”

Dante snorted at that. “You know we’re not playing for _us_ anymore. We’re playing for Michael Corner and every bit of money he’s earnt and wasted in the name of our team.”

“That’s true,” Anthea said. “It was a very clever scheme. It’d be a shame to let that money go to waste.”

“I didn’t say it was a good thing,” Dante said, a bit exasperated. “We’re only stuck with him because Lys was too much of a baby to push him back again.”

“Hey,” Lysander said, nudging Dante, “someone on this team has to pretend to be kind. And at least we got these neat—”

“Ugh!” Dinah Entwhistle interrupted. “If I have to hear about the kevlar vests one more time… !”

Okay, so maybe Lysander thought they were a bit more fun than the rest of his team did. But it was _exciting_ , finally being the team with all the cool gear after years of watching Slytherin deck themselves in finery at the expense of no more than a speck of dust at the bottom of a Malfoy wallet. They were certainly flashier than Hufflepuff, for all the good that Macmillan mortgaging part of his castle had done.

The noise from the pitch grew louder, so Lysander made the executive decision to leave this conversation behind, at no detriment to his pride, and head out.

Hufflepuff were already waiting on the pitch, and Lysander headed straight for Cedric Cadwallader to shake his hand in an attempt to convince him that they weren’t out for blood.

Except, once he got there, he decided that would be no fun at all.

“Morning, Cadwallader,” he said, “ready for us to wipe the floor with you?”

“Come on Lysander,” Cedric said. “Aren’t we over all this nonsense? Let’s just play nice.”

“You _would_ say that,” Lysander said, “snogging the enemy and all.”

Cedric narrowed his eyes. “How do you know about that?”

In response, Lysander rolled his eyes. “ _Everyone_ knows.” 

As Cedric turned an unattractive shade of pink, Lysander sped away laughing to himself and back to his team. This game would be as good as theirs.

 

* * *

 

Michal Smith-Finch-Fletchley was the youngest member of her team, but she was by no means the dumbest. In fact, she often thought she was the _least_ dumbest. She was very astute, and very powerful in her own small way. She could _easily_ work out that this, their last game of the season, was their last chance to win the house cup, but she also knew that this wasn’t quite about the team.

For the past few months, Hufflepuff had been getting an extraordinary amount of help from Ernie Macmillan and his Scottish castle, or whatever it was he’d sold—Michal didn’t particularly care for the Scots, not enough that she’d care for the castle’s great loss—and from her father Zacharias steering everything in whichever direction suited him best. Ideally, that direction would involve Hufflepuff winning, but Michal gathered that there were ulterior motives present.

And then there was Gabriel Truman, the poor, misguided man—an ex-Hufflepuff, and a prefect too, Michal gathered, who really just wanted the best for his old, much-maligned house.

Well, Michal knew the best was yet to come.

Because, of course, Hufflepuff would win today. Michal had no personal vendettas against anyone in Ravenclaw—unlike _Slytherin_ with her _stupid sister_ —but it was the principle of the matter. Ravenclaw had been just as outlandish as those cheats Slytherin in their last match, and no Hufflepuff in their right mind would stand for this.

So, when Cassidy Davies tossed the Quaffle, Michal made sure she was the one to catch it and set the pace of the game.

 

* * *

 

“Some say that the tossing of the Quaffle is symbolic,” Honoria Goldstein said, her voice projected throughout the stadium. “The concept of human hands releasing the Quaffle into play creates a connection between man and man-made—although the philosophy of Quidditch is an ancient discipline that needs some revival, and perhaps a more gender-neutral lexicon—”

“Honoria,” Professor Neville Longbottom said gently, “I appreciate your broad knowledge, but now is not quite the time.”

“Of course,” Honoria said. “As I was saying, the Quaffle is now in play. It seems as though Michal Smith-Finch-Fletchley is in possession—such a lovely girl, I hope she does well today.” She cleared her throat, eyes following the Quaffle across the pitch. “Naturally, as a Ravenclaw my commentary may be a bit biased, and as such I am trying to display an even-handed approach to this task. However, Michal is being pursued by my dear friend Anthea, and as such I may be forced to take sides.”

 

* * *

 

“Your daughter?” Justin asked, from his seat next to Gabriel Truman.

“The one and only,” Gabriel said.

“Her commentary is,” Justin began, pausing to find the most delicate word, “unique.”

Gabriel laughed. “I know she’s a bit of an acquired taste, but after the sort of commentary I remember from my time at Hogwarts, it’s a nice break.”

“That’s true,” Justin said. “Always very biased towards Gryffindor.”

That, he reflected, was something that anyone from any house could bond over—Gryffindor pride was a right pain in the arse.

“I hope she’s made a regular, actually,” Gabriel said. “I’ve spent so much time working with the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, but not being related to any of them, it can be a bit alienating, so it’s nice to come to a match and have some connection to someone, even if she’s just providing commentary. That, and Anthony feels obliged to come now, so I’ll have a little bit of mature company.”

Said mature company was currently mediating what was, by any other name, a schoolyard fight—

 

* * *

 

—except, they weren’t schoolchildren, Anthony reminded himself for the thousandth time, they were grown adults, and he really, truly thought they had left this behind.

“Would you look at that,” Ernie said, “Hufflepuff have taken the lead! For all your kevlar and fast brooms and fancy imported strategies, you can’t win out against good, honest Quidditch.”

“Would you look at _that_ ,” Michael said, “I _don’t care_! Besides, a good team conserves their strength in the early game. Ravenclaw are saving up to bring out their full strength later.”

“Or,” Ernie said, “they’re just a _shite team_.”

Michael gasped—it was almost comical, Anthony thought. If he weren’t so preoccupied with work matters at the back of his mind and dealing with these adult children at the front, he might have laughed. As it was, his mouth hardened into a line.

“You know,” he said, “with you two going at it like this, you’ll miss most of the game.”

With a scowl, Michael turned his face away from Ernie, sticking his nose in the air. “I don’t want to listen to his slander anyway.”

“Careful,” Anthony joked, “someone might mistake you for Draco Malfoy.”

“Hah,” Michael said, “no wonder this match has been so peaceful.”

 

* * *

 

 _Peaceful_ , Anthea thought, was a curse. Hufflepuff were the sort of team to win with that intolerable tortoise-beats-hare attitude, slow and steady wins the race, just one aphorism away from victory at every toss of the Quaffle. They played with a sort of determined patience that, while it did pay off, was frustrating to a player like Anthea.

At least Smith-Finch-Fletchley was a change from your average Hufflepuff—she may have been just a third year, but she had a bit of viciousness in her. It was probably just residual from her rivalry with her Slytherin sister, Anthea mused, but it made the game exciting nonetheless.

As Smith-Finch-Fletchley made her way across the pitch, Anthea made sure to mark her carefully. Their team had sort of abandoned their marking strategies ever since the disaster with Gryffindor, and their match with Slytherin—well, those strategies were out of the question now—but Anthea had never been much of a team player. She was more like her own sister in Slytherin in that way. She’d do whatever it took to win.

 

* * *

 

In the scheme of things, Cedric Cadwallader was having a terrible day. As captain of his Quidditch team, he had a great deal of responsibility, and with that responsibility came many perks—lots of people looked up to Cedric for guidance, which was something he quite liked, and all the attention was quite nice. Also, teachers respected him a lot more, and he felt like he was finally making a name for himself beyond his namesake. There were, however, some downsides, chief among them being that he was the one who had to deal with the interfering adults who saw it as their right by blood to decide the fate of Quidditch at Hogwarts.

The problem with this was that Cedric simply didn’t care what these adults thought about him. Sure, he loved being admired by his peers, but when it came down to it, the opinions of a bunch of washed-up geezers reliving their glory days didn’t really hold much sway with him.

But of course, they were all so intimately invested in the outcome of this match that Cedric couldn’t help but care. As he saw it, one of the curses of being a Hufflepuff was caring too much. Cedric had a lot of room in his heart, and was always eager to please, which was, in his opinion, an awful combination of personality traits that helped with absolutely nothing except contributing to his inevitable disappointment when Ravenclaw won the match.

For now, though, Hufflepuff was ahead.

Putting all thoughts of Ernie Macmillan’s 13th century castle out of his mind, Cedric chased towards the Quaffle as it came in his path, snatching it from a throw aimed right at Lysander Scamander’s hands.

“Sorry, old friend,” Cedric said, even though Lysander was neither old nor really a close friend, “looks like this one’s ours.”

He shot away from Harry Selwyn at the goalposts, and towards Hugo Weasley. Both keepers were the slightly scatterbrained, timid sorts, which meant that Cedric knew exactly the sorts of tactics that would get the Quaffle zooming right past Hugo’s ears—as it did.

 

* * *

 

Of course, Hufflepuff’s lead wouldn’t last long—nor should it, thought Dante Yaxley as Hugo tossed the Quaffle back into play. Dante caught it and raced away, dodging Hufflepuff’s beaters to get to the other end of the pitch.

One of Hufflepuff’s beaters was Lily Potter, who’d always hated him for no real reason, although he suspected it might have had something to do with his inauspicious family name. The other was Lorcan Scamander, who was usually exceptionally harmless, head in the clouds as his tended to be, but lately he’d been less inclined to be kind to Dante, probably because Dante was sort-of-maybe-not-quite a Thing with Lorcan’s brother.

So, there was a bludger heading his way. Only natural, Dante reminded himself as it winged his shoulder. Just a bruise. He’d be fine.

A moment later, though, the bludger returned, nudging the tail of his broom and almost causing him to drop the Quaffle. Interesting. Maybe Hufflepuff had taken a course in tactics. Dante wondered how many Scottish castles it would take to get them to the level of a national league team. Probably five elaborate Ponzi schemes-worth, given that Ravenclaw wasn’t on much better footing than Hufflepuff in that regard.

Dante was so busy contemplating the worthiness of various schemes and scams that he didn’t notice the third bludger coming for him.

 

* * *

 

Honoria surveyed the pitch. She fancied herself something of a great artist, a storyteller with the world as her canvas—or, this little part of the world. It was just such a pity that Professor Longbottom was stifling her creativity so much. Every time she tried to talk about philosophy, he shut her down.

It was with a great degree of world-weariness, beyond her years, she thought, that she pressed on. There was no joy to be had in this life.

But then, she caught sight of the stands through her Omnioculars. _Much_ more interesting than the game, she thought, was the adults, her fathers’ generation, arguing their way through the match.

“Oh, my,” she said, “Smith-Finch-Fletchley has the Quaffle, and her father Mr. Smith seems to be causing quite a stir in the stands. It appears there’s a little bit of inter-house tension on the Hufflepuff side of the pitch, between Mr. Smith and Mr. Macmillan.”

“Perhaps we could stray back on topic?” Professor Longbottom suggested.

“But this is very topical,” Honoria said. “They’re arguing about Quidditch!”

Professor Longbottom let out the sort of sigh which meant Honoria had won.

 

* * *

 

Once Michal had taken the Quaffle, she felt like she could change the game entirely. She threw it to Genevieve Frobisher across the other end of the court and she tossed for a goal—Hugo Weasley blocked it easily, but that didn't matter. As he threw it back into play, Cedric was there to catch it, darting in front of Lysander Scamander at the last minute, and Michal came into a clear patch of sky to throw for the hoops.

It was easy to become complacent when you were doing well, she thought. That was why it was _especially_ after a goal that they had to keep their heads.

Michal was small and aerodynamic, to the point that lots of people had told her she would be well-suited to the role of seeker. Of course, that was a load of poppycock. Seekers were keen-eyed, like Marya Krum, who was currently about ten feet above Michal, hovering low with her eyes trained on the sky. No, Michal wasn’t cut out to be a seeker. Seekers were lone wolves, too. The rest of the players needed pack mentality. Chasers, of course, needed to know when to keep the ball to themselves, and when it would be best to pass it on.

 _Not_ knowing when to pass on the ball was the sort of faux pas that meant Michal’s next throw was too little too late, and saw the Quaffle make its way into Anthea Greengrass-Nott’s hands.

 

* * *

 

Anthea could’ve cheered when the Quaffle came into her possession. Right out of Smith-Finch-Fletchley’s hands, too. Ravenclaw were behind, which was unfortunate, but they could take it back.

As she flew, Anthea’s vocal chords were itching to scream, and she felt like she’d balance so much better if she pulled that move where you stood on your opponent’s broom to throw them off. If only she hadn’t been so knowledgeable that she’d got it listed for good as a foul. Cassidy Davies may have been a bit dim, but he was sure to remember that. Anthea almost envied her little sister Ariadne. At least her team took the slightly illegal moves in their stride.

In a fit of pique—or at least, that was what she’d blame it on—Anthea threw the Quaffle right to Doris Cornfoot. Doris was visibly thrown off, and hit it away with her bat, which was called as a foul. Anthea sighed. Nothing fun in Quidditch these days, she thought.

“Anthea,” Lysander said, flying up beside her, “don’t get restless.”

“Yes, yes,” Anthea said.

Lysander narrowed his mouth into a line. “I mean it. You’re a valuable player, and I know it’s fun to bend the rules until they break, but now is not the time.”

Anthea opened her mouth to disagree, and say that since Hufflepuff were playing so nice now was _precisely_ the time, but Lysander was distracted by Lily Potter hitting a Bludger at Dante. Lysander swore—oh, how Anthea loved it when fairly composed people swore—and flew away, leaving her on her own to contemplate how best to destroy the lives of some Hufflepuffs.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, the best way to destroy Hufflepuffs was by ignoring the tortoise, and supercharging the hare with rocket fuel.

 

* * *

 

Michal was on _fire_. Of course, not literally—that was the sort of thing her _sister_ would get up to. Ruth, after all, had been sporting snakes in place of her hair for _months_ now. Michal would not put it past her to literally get set on fire in the middle of a Quidditch game. But, no, Michal’s fire was of a different sort. She flew with all the fervour she could muster, scoring goal after goal until Hufflepuff were in a comfortable lead.

Everything _should_ have been going well.

Then, with a yell, Anthea Greengrass-Nott came towards her and, just as a Bludger crossed Michal’s vision, distracting her, grabbed the Quaffle straight out of her hands.

“Take _THAT_!” Anthea shouted, executing an intricate mid-air backflip as she sped towards Harry Selwyn at the goalposts.

Michal’s fire burned brighter than ever as she cleared her throat to yell: “ _FOUL_!”

“Oh, dear,” Honoria said, sitting back from the microphone in surprise. “That was quite something.”

 

* * *

 

Anthony was ready to tear his hair out. Honoria’s commentary was the saving grace of his day, the light at the end of the tunnel. Her wry humour was a testament to just how well he and Gabriel had raised her, and he was quite certain that if she wasn’t offering a witticism on every aspect of the arguments that were taking place, he might have punched someone by now.

As Michael was on the verge of doing.

Ernie had goaded him one step too far, and now Anthony found himself restraining Michael so that no fists went flying.

“You Hufflepuff bastard!” Michael shouted. “I’ll make sure you never set foot in your stupid drafty castle ever again!”

“What are you going to do?” Ernie yelled. “Set up another Ponzi scheme?”

“Anthony, you should just let them go,” Zacharias said. “It’ll be more fun for all of us if you just let them fight.”

“ _Fun_ in what sense?” Anthony asked through gritted teeth.

“Well,” Zacharias said, “one of them might get a bloody nose, and I’d so love to hear what your daughter has to say about it.”

Anthony sighed, keeping his hold on Michael. “I do hope Honoria doesn’t become the wrong kind of phenomenon.”

 

* * *

 

The score was heavily in Hufflepuff’s favour when Ravenclaw started making a comeback.

“I don’t understand!” Genevieve Frobisher said, floating next to Cedric. “We were doing so well, too. It’s as though Greengrass-Nott being disciplined gave them a new lease on life.”

“It’d certainly look that way,” Cedric said, wincing as a Quaffle whizzed past Harry Selwyn’s leg.

“Well,” Genevieve said, “we have to stop it.”

“I don’t see what we can do except keep scoring,” Cedric said. “And, Marya will catch the Snitch eventually, so there’s that.”

Genevieve sighed. “That’s true. She’s much better than Ravenclaw’s seeker.”

“Don’t say that too loud,” Cedric whispered. “They’ll probably pull a Greengrass-Nott on you next.”

 

* * *

 

Victory felt good, Dante decided. Ravenclaw were never the most successful Quidditch team—in fact, they hadn’t won a single house cup while he’d been there—but when they managed to pull themselves together, they did it damn well.

So he was still being targeted a little… oh well, he could manage. He quite admired how Anthea had painted herself the villain of the match. She wasn’t afraid to be disliked, which was a very good quality in a Quidditch player, especially now, when house rivalries ran deeper than blood.

In fact, if he ignored the constant Bludger barrage, they might well score enough points to win them the game, even if Marya Krum caught the Snitch. That would be a win for the ages, something that went down in the annals of history, a story to tell their—

Dante’s train of thought was interrupted by a Bludger to the arm.

 

* * *

 

“This is cheating and I won’t stand for it!” Lysander informed the referee.

“I’m a beater,” Lorcan said airily. “Hitting Bludgers is what I do. It can’t be helped if they, in turn, hit people.”

“W-well,” Cassidy Davies stuttered, “it’s not cheating, but it may constitute a foul—”

“It’s cheating because they’ve been targeting the same player for the entire match!” Lysander protested. “Both my brother _and_ Lily Potter have been doing it, and you’d have to be blind or stupid not to see.”

Lorcan let out a sigh. “Let’s not throw around insults. It attracts Nargles.” As if to prove his point, he tugged at the enchanted unbreakable daisy chain around his neck. “I’m wearing protection, so I haven’t come into contact with any Nargles today. Although, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were hiding on the Bludger…”

“When will people stop using made-up excuses for real, _human_ error?” Lysander asked, and, actually, Lily sort of thought he had a point, but she was technically on Lorcan’s side here, so she kept her mouth shut.

“We can’t prove it was Nargles,” Cassidy Davies said, “so for now I… I have to consider the possibility that it’s foul play…”

He trailed off, looking nervous, and Dante Yaxley cleared his throat. “I’m fine, actually, in case any of you wondered,” he said, rubbing his arm.

As the debate continued, Lily’s attention drifted to the stands, where all her parents’ friends—or rather, unfortunate acquaintances—were fighting, close to coming to blows.

“I wonder,” she mused aloud to no-one in particular, “if by engaging in these petty feuds, playing dirty, targeting other players, we’re just as bad as the adults we’ve been using our cheating to rebel against in the first place… ?”

“I’m just suggesting,” Lorcan said, “that you should consider looking into the Nargle population at Hogwarts.”

“I’m suggesting that you’re talking a load of shite!” Lysander said.

“In the spirit of fraternity, I’m going to ignore that statement,” Lorcan said.

“In the spirit of the fact that we share the same parents,” Lysander said, “I’m _not_ going to punch you in the face.”

Turning to the stands, Lily watched as Michael Corner punched Ernie Macmillan in the face.

“Nah,” she said, still ignored while the Scamander twins fought, “we’re nowhere _near_ as bad.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, look!” Honoria said. “Mr. Corner’s punched Mr. Macmillan, with Mr. Smith laughing in the background, and my poor father’s been knocked off his feet, and—oh! Now Mr. Macmillan is punching Mr. Corner. What a day this has been!”

“ _Honoria_ —!”

Glancing away from the stands for a moment, Honoria craned her neck to see what was happening. “And Marya Krum appears to have caught the Snitch,” she said. “That’s sweet, good on her. I hope her girlfriend buys her chocolates—oh, did you know? Marya and Shavonne, they’re very adorable. Young love is so enthralling.”

She sent a grin at Professor Longbottom, and he sighed.

 

* * *

 

In fact, Neville Longbottom was just pleased that the game was over without anyone getting injured—at least, no-one on the pitch.

 

* * *

 

“Well, that’s that,” Cedric said, feeling just a little on the smug side. “I guess hard work wins out over creativity in the end.”

Lysander very much resembled an aggravated root vegetable. “That is such a nonsensical statement, I don’t even—ugh! Do you even understand what those words mean?”

“Very well, thank you,” Cedric said. “They mean that we won, despite your _taunting_ —”

“Friendly japery!” Lysander interjected. “And anyway, it’s not my fault you’re snogging outside party lines.”

“Sorry,” Cedric said, “I must have missed the _only date your teammates_ rule—”

“Now that’s uncalled for,” Lysander said. “I don’t cast aspersions on your teammates—”

“No, only on me, I presume,” Cedric said.

In passing, Lily rolled her eyes at both of them. “ _Boys_ ,” she said. “Always with the fighting.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, this was a fascinating match,” Zacharias said. “Granted, the intrigue was mostly in the stands…”

“Oh, you must have _loved_ Honoria’s commentary, then,” Justin said, sounding exhausted. Zacharias couldn’t for the life of him figure out why that would be.

“I did,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

“At times I found the focus rather…”

Justin trailed off, choosing not to elaborate. Zacharias just smiled. “Well, I’ve never been to a more exciting match in my life.”

 

* * *

 

“Unbelievable,” Michael grumbled, “after all that, we fucking _lost_!”

“There, there,” Anthony said. “It just wasn’t your day. And Hufflepuff’s seeker is very good, you must agree.”

“It’s not about whether I agree or not!” Michael said. “Ravenclaw played very well!”

“You punched Ernie,” Anthony pointed out.

Anthony was still nursing bruises from Michael accidentally— _accidentally!_ —elbowing him to the ground as he swung to punch Ernie, so Michael couldn’t really blame him for just focusing on the fight, but he bristled nonetheless. “I’m talking about what happened _on the pitch_ ,” he said.

“Listen, it’s over, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Chin up,” Anthony said. Somehow, Michael felt that his platitudes fell a bit flat.

“Anyway, I have to congratulate my daughter on a job well done,” Anthony continued, “so I’ll see you later.”

Michael cleared his throat. “Right, yes, see you later.”

Of course, after this _disaster_ of a business venture, he had absolutely no desire to stay in rainy Britain. A week or six in the Caribbean would do the trick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anthea quotes Henry V from the eponymous play by Shakespeare, Act III Scene I: "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more."


	11. Chapter 11

_Ant_ —

_Can’t be long so excuse my handwriting; things are afoot, watch your step, pardon the foot metaphor—swear it’s not intentional. Keep yourself out of trouble. See you next year, maybe,_

_Mike_

 

* * *

 

Owls were never good news. Most of Anthony’s work correspondence happened via the sorts of channels that owls didn't know about, deliberately obfuscatory and generally passing through several pairs of hands until it reached its intended recipient. No-one in the _business_ sent owls anymore, which meant Anthony’s owls were few and far between—a letter from his parents every now and then, reminding him when he and the family were next expected for dinner, and letters from Honoria, but only if she’d discovered a new Muggle philosopher.

An owl from Michael, though—Michael “I can only get away with this shit because my best friend isn’t an Auror and MI7 have better things to do with their time” Corner— _that_ was bad news.

Anthony was beginning to sense a pattern forming.

Of course, if Michael was disappearing himself, this meant things were worse than usual. Usually when things got bad, Michael just ducked away for a weekend in Slough to let everything cool off around him. The fact that he felt the need to send Anthony a letter about it meant he was further afield. The Canary Islands, perhaps. The Caribbean. New Zealand.

Well, at least it would be a little quieter around here now.

It took five minutes before Anthony remembered that, actually, he _detested_ the quie. With his usual flair for the masochistic, he owled Zacharias Smith, and twenty minutes later made his way to Diagon Alley for a not-so-secret meeting.

“Anthony,” Zacharias greeted. “Good to see you. I think.”

“It’s been busy, hasn’t it,” Anthony said. “Still, it’s good that we can make time to catch up.”

“ _Catch up_ ,” Zacharias mocked. “Please, you know as well as I do that this is a business call.”

Anthony laughed, rubbing the back of his head. “Guilty,” he said. “But, well, you’re a journalist, and I’m trying to put some pieces of a puzzle together. Isn’t that sort of your job?”

“Isn’t it _sort of_ yours too?” Zacharias asked.

“I had hoped you’d be a little more amenable to helping me out,” Anthony said.

Zacharias shrugged, a little too nonchalantly. “Well, I’ve been working on my own investigative journalism,” he said. “Quidditch, fiscal turmoil, Russians, you know the story.”

It was a moment before Anthony realised that, yes, he _did_ know the story.

“Zacharias Smith, you genius,” he said. “Wait, no, I take that back—it’s too easy to throw around compliments to people who say the right thing at the right time. But, _thank you_.”

Now, everything was starting come together, even if Zacharias probably had no idea the depths of what he was investigating. Oliver Wood’s involvement in greenlighting the new Quidditch stadium that the Russian investors wanted to build, Viktor Krum’s dramatic resignation from the world of Quidditch and _that letter_ , the list of spies, and Ivan Mikhailovich’s “promise”— _it all made sense_.

“You’re… welcome?” Zacharias said. “I would have thought you knew all this.”

“I did, I did,” Anthony said. “Sometimes, though, you need to step back and see how the machine works without tinkering with it.”

And now, he had another visit to make.

“You’re a bit weird,” Zacharias said amicably.

Anthony pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “All part of the trade,” he said.

He had to get to Percy, but he had no time to organise a meeting of any sort—no, for now, the brute force approach would have to do. Saying his goodbyes to Zacharias, he steadied himself and Apparated to the Ministry of Magic.

For an employee of MI7 such as himself, Level One the Ministry was something of a _terra nullius_ , and its personnel very strictly _non grata_. It wasn’t that they were all incompetent and clueless—simply a stereotype, of course, but Anthony had always thought there was some truth in old wives’ tales. So, it was with some caution that he entered the corridors of power, painfully aware of how out of place he felt amongst the sorts of bureaucrats who thought that they were more than just cogs in a squeaky and slightly outmoded machine.

Percy Weasley’s office was right at the end of the central corridor on Level One, the sort of roomy, foreboding office that was only ever given to someone with a lot of history, and bad history at that. Percy had _earnt_ his place in the Ministry, and as much as Anthony didn't mind his company, he preferred it on his own terms.

“Anthony,” Percy greeted, “do come in.”

“I’m afraid this is a business call,” Anthony said. “I’m sure you remember our conversation a while ago—”

“Ah yes,” Percy said. “How could I possibly forget? There was a lot of _your lot_ , _my lot_ thrown around. I seem to recall we spent a lot more time talking around the issue than we did talking _about_ it.”

Anthony, unfortunately, remembered all too well. In fact, things in general had been far too obfuscatory for his liking lately. Now was the time to put an end to that for good.

“Well, I’ve just had a few things become a little bit clearer,” he said, “so maybe now’s the time to _talk about it_.”

Percy hummed. “Before that, I’ve had some news come in that might be of interest to you. Reports from our Russian counterparts. Whispers of unrest over the Quidditch stadiums, and over the Ministry’s spending.”

“Wood’s mess,” Anthony clarified.

“Call it that if you must,” Percy said, wrinkling his nose. “Either way, this is a nasty situation. At some point, somebody who knows too much is going to get on the wrong side of the Russians and the vampires—er, not your sort, of course—and get themselves bumped off.”

“Fancy way of saying _assassinated_ ,” Anthony said. “Have you got a list of potential candidates?”

Percy’s mouth narrowed into a line and his shoulders stiffened. “Unfortunately not,” he said. “My _sources_ don’t run as deep into the veins of poltical gold in this landscape as yours do.”

It was all very poetic. Anthony wondered if Percy hadn’t spent more time writing out and rehearsing his metaphors than he had actually looking into the situation. It wouldn’t surprise him.

“No single person can know everything,” Anthony said. “I don't blame you.”

“Thank you,” Percy said drily, “you’re all heart.”

Once Anthony had left the Ministry, he abandoned his escape pace and walked slowly to the tube station, electing to go home the Muggle way. Sometimes, it was more peaceful, too. Soon he’d be home with his husband and could put all this political bollocks—that was all it was, really—well and truly behind him, even for just a few hours.

As he tapped his fingers on the handrail, his mind worked away, processing everything he knew. If even Percy had been hearing whispers from the Russians, that meant things were coming to a head. There was a high possibility that all this Quidditch nonsense was related to Agent Knockturn, but how the Agent had been sleeping for so long and just come in from the cold, Anthony had no idea. Then, of course, there was the stadium. If only Anthony could figure out how the stadium fit into it all—it occurred to him that he ought to ask Zacharias. He would know, given the exposé he was in the midst of writi—

 _The exposé_.

With a start, Anthony realised that he’d found the missing piece in the puzzle. Not only were the Russians involved in the Quidditch fiasco the same as the Russians resurfacing and sending whispers towards the Ministry, but Zacharias _knew_ that they were one and the same. He knew exactly what he’d been investigating from a start, and his exposé would no doubt have in print every conclusion that Anthony had just come to.

“That _bastard_ ,” Anthony said aloud.The train came to a stop at his station, and he bounded off, making a dash for the staircase. Even if he couldn’t do anything about this right now, he had to get home to his inkwells and parchment, to make sure everything he’d worked out over the course of the day was in writing for the sake of posterity. Because there was the very real possibility that someone _was_ going to be assassinated, and that it would almost _certainly_ be Zacharias Smith.


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

> **INTERNATIONAL QUIDDITCH CORRUPTION SCANDAL AT HOGWARTS**
> 
> ASSASSINATIONS, ASSAULTS AND NUDITY AS QUIDDITCH CORRUPTION SCANDAL IS EXPOSED AT SCHOOL
> 
> Quidditch has been banned for a year beginning today at Hogwarts, after several assaults and two assassination attempts took place during the brutal Gryffindor-Slytherin final, followed by the Slytherin team using tactical nudity to intimidate Gryffindor into tossing the match. The assaults are believed to have occurred over disagreements over the quality of the participating teams and at least one person has been seriously injured. The assassination attempts are believed to be unrelated to the assaults, though a full Ministerial inquiry has been launched into the matter, but are believed to be related to reports concerning corruption at the highest levels of the International Committee for the Quidditch World Cup (ICQWC), the Federation Internationale de Quidditch Association (FIQA), the Department of Magical Sports and Games and even some players for the local Quidditch team, Puddlemere United, concerning the 2026 Quidditch World Cup to be hosted in Russia. (cont. pg 2)

From: _The Daily Prophet: Evening Edition_ , May 25 2024.

* * *

“Salazar’s snakes,” said Tracey.

There, occupying nearly half a row with furs, drinks and various beaus, was Daphne Greengrass in all her blinding and resplendent glory. Which was odd, because Daphne Greengrass was supposed to be in Venice.

“Darling,” Daphne drawled, “Don’t swear. You know I don’t like it. Besides we don't use his name any more - it reminds _them_ of you know what.”

Tracey struggled for words, finally managing a strangled, “But Italy -”

“Oh darling do keep up with the times,” said Daphne, “The Transnational Floo - so _useful_. Anyway, you know Teddy keeps writing to Malfoy out of some misguided belief in auld lang syne and you know, one can’t help hearing about these matches even in Venice. It’s all too exciting, isn’t it? And one must support Shavonne even if she plays for the Dread House, besides Teddy tells me the Malfoy infant can’t even brake which is really too bad - even _I_ know how to brake and you know how flying makes me ill - so you must see why Teddy and I came post-haste to England -”

“She wanted to see Malfoy humiliate himself,” said Theodore Nott, with his usual penchant for making people distinctly uncomfortable about the truth.

“And darling isn’t it wonderful? Your daughter, to tea with an _International Quidditch Superstar_ , romancing his _daughter_ \- I always knew she’d go places unlike you - isn’t it _darling_ , Teddy?”

“Very canny of her,” commented Theodore Nott, “She would have done well in Slytherin, but I suppose one has to make allowances for nature’s whims and freaks.”

“I need a drink,” said Tracey, sitting down abruptly on a nearby bench.

“Oh darling,” said Daphne, “It’s the cold isn’t it? Miles - what will you have? A martini? - _Miles_ \- no I agree, it’s too jejune isn’t it? My sister drinks those nowadays - there you are Miles.”

“Good god,” whispered Tracey to herself, finally taking in the entire tableau.

There was Daphne, of course, dazzling in Karkadann furs and an elaborate turquoise and gold Runespoor necklace. With her was Theodore Nott, of course, who looked sufficiently absent-minded in his neatly tailored robes that Tracey wouldn’t have been surprised to find ink-splotches on his hands. Further on, in a little corner of theirs was something of a Slytherin reunion, consisting of all the members of their house who’d gone into journalism one way or the other (and a few members who were Quidditch mad), Daphne Greengrass being the exception to both, of course; both Quidditch and work being much too beneath her notice.

There was -

Miles Bletchley, junior editor at The Wixenomist, and Adrian Pucey, who occasionally wrote for _Wizard’s Quarterly_ when it struck his fancy, presiding over drinks (of _course_ there was a drinks corner, Tracey didn’t know why she expected otherwise) at an ice box in the corner of their box -

Pansy Parkinson - intrepid successor to Rita Skeeter and just as universally loathed - and Mafalda Prewett - editor for British Affairs at The Wixenomist, also godmother and mentor to Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley - in giant sun hats and tiny but hideously green robes, lounging on deck chairs that they’d somehow managed to cram into the tiny space between the side of the box and the benches -

Blaise Zabini, who had been dragged away from the comforts of Venice and his ‘job’ writing about exchange rates and telling everyone their predictions were wrong for _The Oikonomancer_ (he wrote them scathingly worded letters once a month detailing all their financial thought crimes) to watch _Quidditch_ , which meant he was here for the scandal and the gossip -

Marcus Flint, who was glaring dangerously at everything -

The Goyles, who were happy to sit silently by themselves and watch the world go by until called on to provide muscle power for Draco’s various fights -

Malcolm Baddock, who was Draco’s lawyer and was currently wishing he was sitting in the middle of the Sahara -

Terrence Higgs, who supervised the firm Malcolm worked for and was here to make sure Malcolm wasn’t being bullied by Malfoy, but had been waylaid by Pucey and Bletchley and was now getting into the spirit of the thing and laying bets on Slytherin’s chances at the cup -

And then there were the Malfoys, whom everyone hoped would embarrass themselves as they inevitably did at their annual Yule Charity Ball.

All that was missing was a couple of obese white peacocks and the deadly Malfoy punch.

“No one told me this was an old boys and girls reunion,” she told Daphne drily.

“I know,” Daphne replied, “Isn’t it wonderful? And the weather’s unusually good for darling old Albion too.”

“Excellent weather for slaughter,” added Theodore.

“Shavonne will catch the Snitch,” said Daphne, in response to the look on Tracey’s face, “Slytherin will win but Shavonne will catch the Snitch. I read it in my tea cup this morning.”

“Champers?” Miles asked Tracey.

Tracey took the proffered glass and downed it in one go.

* * *

Anthony was troubled. A tiny voice at the back of his mind reminded him that today was the Gryffindor-Slytherin final and his daughter, his flesh and blood, would be doing the commentary for the match - it _behooved_ him to attend. Anthony dismissed it. There was a far more pressing matter on his mind. A matter of _life and death_ , he told it sternly.

It protested feebly, muttering something about fatherhood and responsibilities.

Anthony flooed Terry.

“Oh,” said Terry, surprised, “I thought you’d gone for the match.”

“What?” said Anthony.

“The match,” said Terry, “Gryffindor versus Slytherin? Isn’t Honoria doing commentary?”

“Ah,” said Anthony, “Look -”

“Though I mean,” Terry continued, in the voice of one who considers himself very ill-used, “It might as well be open house for everyone. The bloody office is empty. You and I must be the only people not attending it.”

Anthony started violently when Terry said that, his glasses sliding off his nose and nearly into the Floo.

“Hi,” said Terry, alarmed, “Careful!”

“Sorry,” Anthony mumbled, fixing his glasses more carefully on the bridge of his nose, “Terry, you’re a _genius_.”

He withdrew his head from the fireplace and ended the call abruptly, leaving Terry scratching his head at the empty Floo port in his office.

“Thanks?” said Terry, to no one in particular.

* * *

Scorpius Malfoy surveyed the battlefield Quidditch pitch solemnly, with the air of a general preparing for a long and bloody battle. He wondered if this was what Salazar Slytherin had felt like, facing down the collective troops of Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor as they battled over Hogwarts ten or eleven centuries previously. The history books called it a ‘fight among friends’ but then, he supposed, back then, three or four hundred people swinging swords at each other must have been a fight among friends. Of course, they weren’t allowed to use Salazar Slytherin’s name nowadays - bad taste and all that - so it was a moot point. He wondered if Merlin had ever presided over troops like this.

“Ariadne,” he said, turning to the fourteen year old beside him, “Did Merlin ever preside over any troops at battle?”

Ariadne eyed him dubiously, “Probably? I wouldn’t know. Don’t particularly care.”

“Oh,” said Scorpius. There was always one of the Malfoy generals, then. He could be Lucius Malfoy, the second of his name, presiding over the Battle of Andredsweald as the Cavaliers routed the Roundheads. He supposed this made Greengrass-Nott his commander-in-chief. The other three girls were free spirits. Wild canons. Best suited to the cavalry. The Goyle twins could be the vanguard and smash everyone out of their way.

“Malfoy,” Greengrass-Nott’s voice cut through his reverie, “You’re doing it again.”

“What?” he said, unwilling to admit to any wrongdoing.

“Daydreaming,” she answered calmly, “It’s not the time for it. We’ve got a match to win.”

Scorpius sighed and abandoned his delightful reverie, “I know that,” he told her, with as much scorn as he could inject into his voice. It would never do for her to get Ideas.

“Well don’t just stand around,” he told her, “Fetch the others.”

Ariadne coughed delicately, “They’re all waiting for you. That was what I was telling you. While you were daydreaming.”

Scorpius ignored her and turned to his teammates.

“Well,” he said, sticking his hands into his pockets and surveying his army team. They all looked excessively dangerous, in his opinion. Goyle and Goyle looked beyond menacing. Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley still had snake hair. Juno and Ariadne looked positively evil. Lucy Weasley’s eyes were glinting dangerously, in that Percy Weasley-ish way of hers. Slytherin high spirits. Tough that they were playing Gryffindor; they were probably the only team foolish enough to stand in the way of high-spirited Slytherins. “Please don’t kill anyone, all right?”

* * *

Whatever it was, Albus decided that despite his parents’ repeated claims to the contrary, he was expected to win this match and to win it by a long margin. It was a clear case of protesting too much, in his opinion. Clearly the family honour had been staked upon this match even if it all boiled down to a couple of measly hydrangeas in the end. Albus was expected to be properly Gryffindor-ish and rise to the challenge and fight.

Albus rose to the challenge. He also rose and faced his fellow team-mates and set his jaw firmly. They looked pugnacious enough to his mind, but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. Rouse their blood for battle. Get them spoiling for a fight.

“Friends, Gryffindors, we few, we band of brothers,” he began.

“And sisters,” said Shavonne.

“And sisters,” he said and then paused to frown at Fred, who’d promptly added ‘and other-gendered teammates’, “We who will go out this day and fight and when we look back, show our scars and say, _I was there on the day we rubbed Slytherin’s face in the mud_ -”

Rose Weasley buried her face in her hands, torn between laughter and tears.

“What the hell,” Fred muttered to Douglas, as Albus went on about shedding blood together in the name of honor and Gryffindor, “What’s he on about?”

But Douglas was too preoccupied with staring at his captain, bug-eyed, to reply to this.

“Mental,” Jeremy Brown whispered to Rose, “He’s gone _mental_.”

“Shhh,” said Rose, then stuffed her fist into her mouth.

“- and this day, in the future, Gryffindors will think themselves accursed and hold their bravery cheap when standing in the presence of us, who played against Slytherin on this fateful day, this day of,” Albus paused and looked at his hand, “St - St - St Godric’s day - Okay everyone go take your places and when the time comes, ask yourselves: what would Godric Gryffindor do? And then do it.”

“You mean stab ‘em all with a sword?”Fred asked him.

“Piss off Fred,” Albus said, peaceably, “I mean within reason of course. Anyway, less talking, more getting ready.”

“Was that meant to be Shakespeare?” Roxanne Weasley asked her cousin, Rose, “I think that was meant to be Shakespeare.”

“It's not St Godric’s day,” Douglas said indignantly. He took half his beliefs from each of his fathers with the result that he was both staunchly a Catholic and staunchly an atheist, but on alternating days. Today he was a Catholic. “That's _ages_ away. Today's St Aldham’s day.”

“Doesn't have the same ring to it as Godric though, does it?” said Shavonne.

Rose made a noise like a boiling tea kettle.

“I thought I did well,” Albus told her, coming over to where she was and consequently, scattering the others, “Nice speech, wasn't it?”

It proved too much for Rose’s self control. She grabbed her broom and ran out of the room.

* * *

“None of your cheating, Malfoy,” said Albus, as they gathered around Davies for the Quaffle toss.

“Cheating?” said Scorpius, genuinely pained by this accusation, “Me?”

“No cheating,” said Cassidy Davies, hurriedly intervening before any punches could be thrown, “Both of you.”

Albus glared menacingly at Scorpius. Scorpius smiled at Albus blandly. The rest of his team was menacing enough to menace the Gryffindors on his behalf.

“There will be no cheating,” Cassidy Davies continued, encouraged by this silence, “This will be a _clean_ game. All right everyone, mount your brooms.”

He threw the Quaffle into the air and blew his silver whistle. The players took off and very soon Gryffindor had captured the Quaffle.

Cassidy Davies crossed his fingers and hoped, without much hope, that this match, at least, would be a neat and painless one.

* * *

Anthony Goldstein Apparated into Hogsmeade at precisely ten minutes past eleven, just as the Gryffindor-Slytherin match was getting under way. He was contemplating the pros and cons of transfiguring a trash can into a bicycle (pros: no walking, get there quickly, probably save Zach; cons: unsure of anatomy of bicycle, possibility of cocking up and damaging vital body parts) when he spotted it.

Once, when he was a young fledgling spy, slowly working his way up the ranks at MI7, the mysterious cloak-and-dagger entity they all called W had once told him that there would come a time in the life of every spy, when they realized that their dreams were about to be fulfilled and that they, they alone had the fate of nations hanging upon their shoulders. _In those moments_ , W had told him, completely hidden from view by a black cloak, _there is no time for hesitation - you must seize it and make the best of it and when an opportunity presents itself, don’t dally_. Someone had then quoted Shakespeare. Tides in the affairs of men, floods of fortune and so on and so forth.

It had all been very serious and, Anthony was certain, almost nothing to do with _style_.

And Anthony hadn’t driven a car in … nearly ten years now -

Nevertheless, Anthony Goldstein, staring at Zacharias Smith’s vintage Aston Martin (his grandfather’s Aston Martin, the one no one, not even Justin, was allowed to drive) was struck by the realization that this was such a moment. The fates of nations rested on his shoulders. There was a tide waiting to be seized. It was Now or Never.

A little while later, Anthony Goldstein was roaring along the carriage road to Hogwarts in Zacharias Smith’s Aston Martin, quietly humming the James Bond theme tune to himself.

* * *

Things were heating up on the Quidditch pitch, but not as much as they were heating up on the stands. By some stroke of misfortune and probably some very clever manoeuvring on the part of Daphne Greengrass, Draco and Astoria had ended up seated behind the Potters and the Weasleys. Naturally, words had been exchanged and then very swiftly devolved into blows.

It had begun politely enough with the respective parties exchanging frozen but _excessively_ polite greetings and observations that it was wonderful weather for playing Quidditch. Then the sun and the alcohol had slowly started their work on the Malfoys and Draco had leaned over and purposefully tapped Ginny Weasley on her shoulder, then asked her and Harry how she felt about Gryffindor’s pathetic gameplay: ‘the Weasley legacy, obviously; too many Weasels spoil the broth’. Understandably, they had been less than pleased by this and even less pleased by Astoria’s declaration that it ‘didn’t matter about the generalities, I know exactly where they get it from’.

“I mean, people don’t just _quit_ the Holyhead Harpies to start a family, do they?” she asked Ginny.

Ginny punched Astoria in the face, making Astoria spill her drink all over Draco.

“You stupid cow,” shrieked Astoria, “Those olives alone were worth more than your _hideous_ robes.”

(“It’s always the third glass,” Daphne told Tracey, “That’s when she _really_ gets going.”)

“Ha,” said Ginny, and then cast her infamous Bat-Bogey Hex at Astoria.

“Assault!” cried Draco, as he undid the hex, while juggling his drink in his other hand, “My lawyer will have something to say about this!”

“I bet you think you’re clever, don’t you?” Astoria yelled at Ginny, “I bet you think you’re funny too, with your punches and that same old hex of yours -”

Astoria grabbed Draco’s drink and flung it in Ginny’s face.

“Hey!” protested Draco.

“It may comes as a surprise to you,” Astoria told Ginny, as Ginny dried herself, “But _people_ use _words_ to communicate. Not that I’d ever think Gryffindors were human -”

“You’re right,” said Ginny, “We’re better than that -”

“I was thinking apes,” said Astoria, “Overgrown apes. Like that hooligan son of yours.”

“At least my son doesn’t need daddy to fight his battles for him.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand what it means to have a sensitive child with those thick-skinned ghouls of yours -”

“Your precious sensitive child’s been encouraging his fellow team-mates to break every single known and unknown law in Quidditch and then spent his time hiding behind daddy like a coward -”

“I’d rather have an enterprising cheat for a son, than a - a - violent monster with about as much life and brains in him as your measly little hydrangeas -”

“My hydrangeas were perfect,” said Harry indignantly.

“They were rotten,” said Draco.

“Like your family,” Ginny retorted.

Astoria tackled Ginny and knocked her to the ground.

* * *

“Albus,” said Rose, as she batted away another Bludger aimed for her cousin, sending it towards Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley, “We’ve got to stop all this nonsense about honour and bravery and the Gryffindor way -”

“I’m a _little_ bit busy, Rose,” he replied, as Juno Flint and Ariadne Greengrass-Nott came towards them both with bloody murder writ large on their faces.

There was a pause as the two of them ducked under the two Chasers and yet another Bludger meant for Albus. The Goyle twins were out in full force today and Albus had clearly been marked as a dangerous man. Rose hit the Bludger away towards Juno Flint. It hit the tail end of her broom, sending her spinning out of control and into Ariadne.

Albus zipped along, still clutching at the Quaffle, Rose beside him.

“Albus,” she said, more urgently this time, “We’ve got to stop playing nice and playing ‘what would Gryffindor do’, these guys are _mental_.”

Albus, said nothing, he merely set his jaw grimly, and flung the Quaffle at the hoops. It only just about missed Lucy Weasley’s fingertips and went straight through the hoops.

“So you’re saying we should play dirty?” he asked her, “Rough them up a bit.”

“Merlin give me patience,” Rose muttered to herself.

“Yes Albus,” she said out loud, “That’s exactly what I mean.”

* * *

“Things are heating up as both Gryffindor and Slytherin abandon sporting honor for cheap point scoring,” Honoria Goldstein said solemnly, “Astoria Greengrass-Malfoy has just slapped Ginny Weasley-Potter, presumably in return for Mrs Weasley-Potter having punched her husband in the stomach -”

“Honoria, _please_ ,” said Neville, “The match -”

“The match is quite interesting too, I suppose,” said Honoria, “Gryffindor just scored their fifth shot, which brings them ten points closer to Slytherin which is -”

“Thirty points behind Slytherin -”

“Thank you Professor Longbottom,” said Honoria, “Slytherin rules the pitch while Gryffindor rules the stands, which if you think about it is a metaphor for life itself - ambition rules in the workspace -”

“Yes thank you Honoria,” said Neville, “But please could you restrain yourself and focus on the match -”

“But professor,” said Honoria, “One must observe and understand the absurdities of life to come to terms with the nature of the human condition, this tunnel vision is damaging -”

“Honoria.”

“Yes Professor Longbottom,” she said meekly.

* * *

“Merlin,” said Zacharias, taking a drink from Miles, “They’ve gone completely mad.”

“Have they?” said Miles, “I always thought they were slightly odd.”

“Zach never had to spend his childhood with Malfoy flopping about moaning about Potter,” Pansy explained.

“Zach never had to spend his childhood listening to Pansy moaning about Malfoy moaning about Potter,” murmured Daphne, so only Theodore and Blaise could hear her.

“He was even worse during the summer hols,” said Theodore Nott, blandly, “Spent exclusively in my company.”

Not that he felt self-pity, merely amusement, but Theodore Nott felt it was important that everyone get the fact of his suffering correct.

“It’s all the inbreeding,” said Blaise and then everyone fell uncomfortably quiet as they all remembered that it had been a Nott who’d written the pureblood directory.

“From his mother’s side,” said Theodore, lightly brushing aside the insult to his finely knotted family tree, “The Blacks were all insane. Just look at Draco’s aunt.”

And since he made no mention of _which_ aunt, each Slytherin considered a different aunt in turn and concluded that he had a point.

“Don’t you get tired of all of this?” Justin asked Tracey, “All this constant unpleasantness?”

“The Malfoys have very bad breeding,” said Ernie, “You’d never find a _Hufflepuff_ getting away with this.”

“I would _never_ behave like that,” said St John.

“Of course, rabbit,” said Justin, absentmindedly patting his seven year old’s head, “You’re much too nice.”

This, of course, was blatantly untrue, but both Ernie and Tracey decided to let it slide. They were both above quarrelling with seven year olds.

“Well,” said Tracey, after a slight pause as a man wearing a Gryffindor scarf pushed past the three of them, “You know how Malfoy comes on too strong?”

Justin did know. Justin also thought that this was true of all the Slytherins, though he did not say that out loud. They all came on too strong, in his opinion. He still found it a little bit terrifying even after all these years of rubbing shoulders with them in the corridors of power.

“Malfoy,” said St John, in the piercing tones of the young, “Is a wanker.”

Tracey was startled into a giggle and even Ernie snorted, before he hurriedly turned it into a cough. Draco Malfoy, looking for the source of the rude comment, found himself glaring at St John. St John glared back at him.

“Rabbit you mustn’t say things like that,” said Justin, “Apologize to Mr Malfoy.”

“Shan’t,” said St John, still glaring at Malfoy. Draco glared back at the seven year old.

“Draco darling,” chortled Tracey, “He’s just a _child_.”

“You heard what he said!” Draco replied, full of righteous indignation.

“Well he's got a point doesn't he?” said Harry, whose attention had been drawn away from the match by hearing someone else express views on Draco that matched his own precisely, “Out of the mouths of children, Malfoy.”

“Can’t even insult on your own, can you Potter?” sneered Draco, “Copying seven year olds for insults?”

“No point stating the obvious is there?” said Harry, “It’s out there for everyone to see.”

“Goodness,” Honoria Goldstein’s voice rang out over the pitch, “Things _are_ getting exciting, Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy have just drawn their wands and - _Father!”_

“ _POTTER!_ ” yelled Anthony Goldstein, running down the pitch, his robes billowing behind him, “ _JUSTIN! ERNIE! LOOK OUT! BEHIND ZACH!_ ”

“What,” said Justin, looking bewildered.

But Ernie, who’d taken Anthony Goldstein’s advice and looked over to just behind where Zacharias Smith was standing, saw the man in the Gryffindor scarf raise his umbrella and take aim at Zacharias’ neck.

“Zach,” he yelled, “Look out.”

And then acting in his friend’s best interest, he pushed him hard, just as Zacharias turned away from Miles to demand to know just what was going on.

The dart missed Zacharias by a quarter of an inch. Harry leapt over the benches to pursue the man in the Gryffindor scarf, who was now legging it, realizing the game was up. St John burst into tears. Justin shrieked and hastily shoved his son into Tracey’s arms. Pansy dropped her drink.

For a moment, Zacharias stood there, arms waving wildly as he wobbled precariously at the edge of the box. And then gravity and an awkwardly placed bench came together and Zacharias Smith toppled out of the box towards the ground.

* * *

It was all, as they say, downhill from there.

“Bloody hell,” said Ernie and dove for Zacharias’ disappearing legs. He caught one bony ankle, Justin caught the other one and then, their wits completely lost in the chaos, clung on to his legs for dear life.

“Mr Davies,” said Honoria solemnly, as Neville Longbottom hurried away to find himself a broom, “Professor Longbottom would like you to do something.”

“Malfoy,” said Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley gleefully, displaying a complete lack of filial sentiment, “ _Malfoy there’s no referee_.”

“Yah,” said Draco, still stinging from St John’s insult, clearly the work of Zacharias Smith, “Serves him right. That's right, run away Potter, run away from a fight -”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” yelled Justin, startling everyone and then Ron, who had been holding on to his temper by sheer willpower and years of Auror training, gave in and clambered over Ginny and Astoria and punched Draco.

“My lawyer!” shrieked Draco, then deciding that this was time for more drastic measures, “Goyle!”

“I’m sorry for everything,” Zacharias gibbered with his eyes shut, as he swung upside down from the stands, “I’m sorry for being such a horrible husband -”

“Oh dear,” said Cassidy Davies weakly, uncertain of what he was supposed to do, “Oh dear.”

And Neville, when he finally reached the stands, once again found himself roped into a fistfight with Draco Malfoy and Vincent Goyle, while Harry was off saving the day.

* * *

Their enemy, Mr Davies, was gone. There was no referee. There wasn’t even any authority, not even in the form of Neville Longbottom to keep an eye on them. Never in the history of Quidditch had a match been played without a referee and they were far too keen to let the opportunity slip away.

And so, Slytherin shed any pretense to sportsmanlike behaviour, civilization and their clothes and descended on Gryffindor with cries of unholy Celtic glee.

“What the _fuck_ ,” whispered Albus Potter in horror, unable to decide where to look because everywhere he looked he saw things he’d never ever wanted to see.

“I see,” said Honoria, “Slytherin appears to have gone back to its roots.”

(“Technically,” Theodore Nott mused aloud, “Only the Smith and Weasley girls have, the rest of them are all Norman, you know. Different ball game.”)

“Naked we come into the world and naked we leave it,” Honoria continued, “Cradle to grave -”

Eustace Goyle scored three shots in succession with his Beater’s bat and then inspired by this decided to pass the Quaffle to Ruth in this manner.

“Toss it,” he said, capturing a stray Bludger and aiming it at her.

“What the _fuck_ ,” she yelled, tossing the Quaffle into the air and fleeing.

“ _DUCK!”_ shouted Rose as the Bludger and Quaffle sailed towards Jeremy together.

“FOUL!” roared the Gryffindors in the stands.

“GO SLYTHERIN!” roared the Slytherins.

“Gosh,” said Honoria, “Slytherin _is_ out in full force today. Professor Longbottom has just been knocked to the floor by Mr Goyle.”

* * *

“Imperius,” said Anthony, stunning the man and casting a sleeping spell on him,“He doesn’t even know where he is. There’s someone else in the crowd responsible for this.”

“ _Malfoy_ ,” said Harry excitedly, “That’s Jimmy Peakes, I know him! He’d have never done this on his own at all.”

Anthony pushed his glasses up his nose and frowned at Harry Potter in the dim light that filtered through underneath the stands.

“Do you have proof?” he inquired politely, “Or is this all part of your hydrangea related vendetta against him?”

Harry scowled.

“He’s done things like this before,” Harry pointed out coldly, “Same method. Same roundabout execution. It was Katie Bell last time. Stands to reason it ought to be Peakes this time.”

“In sixth year,” said Anthony, “Twenty eight years ago. For the Death Eaters. Not Quidditch.”

“He has a copy of the fiftieth edition of FIQA’s Quidditch Rules and Regulations handbook he keeps boasting about -”

Anthony closed his eyes. His mind told him that this was an open and shut case. All they had to do was find whoever had kidnapped this poor sod from London, dressed him up in Gryffindor kit and then Imperiused him to do his bidding and that was it. Instinct told him that something about this was all wrong.

“And you saw how he reacted when Smith fell out of the stands,” Harry continued, eyes glittering with an unnatural fervour. Anthony supposed he was feeling young again; it almost always meant they were being childish and unreasonable. He glared at Harry.

Harry’s chin tilted up defiantly but the unnatural fervour in his eyes began to dim. Even _he_ could see the problems with the Malfoy hypothesis, which though neat, seemed implausible - even though Anthony made a practice of never confusing the implausible with the impossible.

No, there was something missing - something crucial - why go to all that bother for a mere journalist, sitting in a box in broad daylight with at least a dozen or more people who’d be able to mark someone unusual or out of place if it came to it? Merlin, why go to all the bother of staging such an elaborate assassination in the first place -

Unless -

“ _GO DAVIS!_ ” roared the Gryffindors all of a sudden, drowning out Anthony’s thoughts.

Anthony and Harry both looked up, through the narrow slits in the wood. Shavonne Davis was making a bid for the Snitch and Scorpius Malfoy, as usual, was lagging behind miserably.

But more importantly, as they looked up, their eyes both locked on the stands where a familiar and famous figure, seated next to his daughter, was watching Shavonne Davis chase after the Snitch and the pieces fell into place.

“ _Krum_ ,” said Harry, reaching the first half of Anthony’s conclusion.

“ _Agent Knockturn_ ,” said Anthony, looking at the man seated just behind Krum: the shop boy from Borgin and Burkes.

* * *

“- and I’m sorry,” Zacharias babbled on, determined to put a name to all the sins he’d committed over the past months, “I ever encouraged Michael with his Ponzi scheme and his stupid bet with you and _lied_ to you about what he was doing -”

“ _What_?” demanded Ernie, letting go of Zacharias’ ankle.

Justin shrieked as Zacharias slipped further down. Zacharias shrieked because Justin shrieked.

“ _You_ ,” Ernie spluttered, trying to find words, “You - you -”

“I’m sorry,” pleaded Zacharias, “I really am, I won’t do it again!”

“You,” said Ernie, astounded by the sheer impudence of this remark. It displayed a remarkable kind of callousness in his opinion - the assumption that there could have been an again that only this disastrous turn of events could have averted.

“I’d expect so,” said Ernie, “I’d have thought that a fellow housemate and a _friend_ wouldn’t’ve contemplated such a thing for a _moment_ -”

“It was only a little bit of fun,” said Zacharias defensively, “Take you down a few pegs - and you _were_ being a bit of an arse -”

“ _Fun_ ,” hissed Ernie, leaning over the box, “It’s not fun for me! I nearly lost my castle -”

“It’s draughty and falling apart at the seams anyway -”

“My _family home_ ,” said Ernie coldly, “All because of you and your _stupid_ practical jokes -”

“Oh _shut up_ ,” snapped Justin, “Shut up! The two of you! All of this constant bitching and fighting over _stupid_ petty shit, over fucking _Quidditch_ -”

“Quidditch isn’t petty,” Zacharias muttered truculently.

“And your _stupid_ pissing contest over who’s the Hufflepuffiest Hufflepuff of them all -”

“It’s not stupid,” said Ernie.

“And your _idiotic_ childhood vendettas and rivalries - none of this would’ve happened if you’d all _grown up_ instead of having ridiculous midlife crises over whether or not you were influencing the youth of today enough, or if your garden is the best garden in England, or if you were getting one over your stupid rivals - and all of it, all of it boils down to this stupid meaningless sport like it’s the bloody centre of the world because it’s supposed to be character building and foster teamwork but only boils down to a couple of _grown ups_ pissing at each other over who scores the most points -”

“Quidditch isn’t stupid,” Zacharias said, a little louder this time around.

“IT’S THE STUPIDEST SPORT IN THE WORLD!” yelled Justin, “It’s asinine and meaningless and stupidly violent and all it does for anyone is hurt them and all it teaches the children is that it doesn’t matter whatever anyone says three hundred and sixty four days of the year, actually it’s all about that one day in the year when everyone pulls their gloves off and waves beater bats in each others’ faces -”

“It _is_ about teamwork,” Zacharias insisted.

“ _I HATE QUIDDITCH!_ ” Justin cried, “ _I HATE QUIDDITCH AND I HATE LISTENING TO YOU WHINING ABOUT IT AND I HATE LISTENING TO THE KIDS TALK ABOUT IT AND I’VE HATED EVERY SINGLE BLOODY QUIDDITCH MATCH YOU’VE DRAGGED ME TO_.”

“God,” he said, a few hiccups later, “Why don’t you just _marry_ Quidditch if you love it so much?”

“And _don’t_ ,” he told Ernie angrily, “Think you’re any better than him. Fighting like _children_ over who gets to give Hufflepuff Quidditch advice. Why can’t you all just get along? Why can’t you just act like grown ups and go back to how it all was before and we all were friends and nobody was stabbing each other in the back - and now you’re just _standing_ there like a boiled turnip while Zach nearly dies -”

Justin took several deep breaths in, trying to calm himself as he clung to Zacharias’ foot for dear life.

“Are you done?” Zacharias inquired politely.

Justin shot him a venomous look, but said, “Yes I’m done now.”

“Then,” said Zacharias, quite calmly, “You can levitate me back into the stands, since this idiot on his broom only seems to know the phrase ‘oh dear’. And then you can explain to me why our daughter is playing Quidditch without any clothes on.”

* * *

Romilda Vane stormed over to where the Slytherins were seated with their housemaster, Adolphus Urquhart. He was a tall and thin man, with a nervous looking face that concealed the fact that he had not cared about anything except Quidditch since the tender age of six - not even Potions, which he taught with a kind of lackadaisical ennui. He had got the job simply on the strength of being the only Slytherin who was not a blood purist maniac to seek employment outside of the Ministry, journalism or private business. On the average day, he was noted to be an improvement on Severus Snape and a decent teacher. On extraordinary days, which seemed to be every other day down in the Slytherin dungeons, it was much easier to believe that he served a merely decorative purpose: under him, Slytherin seemed to perpetually be in ‘high spirits’.

Romilda, in particular, was the leader of the school of this latter school of thought at Hogwarts. Nevertheless, it never stopped her from trying to goad him into action.

“Adolphus,” she said, waving her finger in his face, “Do something.”

“Ah,” he said, “I’m afraid you have the wrong end of the stick.”

“They’re your _students_ ,” she said, “Discipline them. Make them listen.”

“I’ve tried,” he said mournfully, “They’re much too full of high spirits to listen to me. It’s the change to the diet - diluted pumpkin juice -”

Romilda Vane hexed him.

She, obviously, could not referee the match. There was too much chance of injury and she did not fancy being injured, not even in the name of justice for her children. Vector was getting on in years and besides was far too mathematical for the job. Rolf Scamander was too airheaded.

She looked around, looking for someone who could meet the challenge of calming this match down  and then pounced on the nearest responsible looking adult.

“Dean,” she said, grabbing Dean Thomas, “You know Quidditch, don’t you?”

* * *

“Francis Burke?” Harry asked Anthony as they attempted to discreetly, but quickly, edge around the field to where Krum was sitting.

“It has to be,” said Anthony, “We’ve managed to attach him to the disappearance of Florean Fortescue in 1996, seems he went a bit rogue back then what with the Death Eaters, before they could reel him back in on a leash, but we’ve been getting reports recently about an ‘Agent Knockturn’ and dear old P’s almost certain he’s at least _one_ of the spies planted in England -”

“A spy who fixes Quidditch matches?” Harry demanded incredulously. In his limited experience, spies had a lot more desperate glamour to them. Lives lived in shadows, with secrets and secrets. And desperation. Lots of desperation. A spy who fixed Quidditch matches was almost _banal_.

“Country interests,” Anthony replied, and then related his interesting but vague conversation with Mr Zagadkov to Harry.

Harry spluttered indignantly, “They can’t just go around killing people because they don’t like the way they’re running their countries - they can’t run our country for us!”

Anthony coughed deprecatingly, “That’s why the Vauxhall Vampires exist.”

“ _What_?”

Michael, Anthony reflected, would have never asked him such an inane question. Michael, was, in many ways, a brick. He had misjudged him, he realized. He _missed_ him.

“Inside joke,” he said kindly, “MI7. Secret service, at your service.”

* * *

“Wood,” said Romilda Vane, “Suppose I was to leave a Firebolt here next to you, hypothetically speaking, would you or would you not join in the match and save Gryffindor from being slaughtered?”

Oliver Wood blinked at the curly haired woman standing before him, broom in one hand and other hand resting on her hip in a rather pugnacious fashion.

“You already have a Firebolt,” he pointed out.

“That was _not_ my question,” she said.

He looked at the field. Marcus Flint was playing. If he was honest, Romilda Vane and her broomstick were something of a godsend. He’d just been lamenting his lack of a broomstick with which to clobber that arse, Flint, over the head with, when she’d approached him.

“Well,” he said, “If you _did_ leave it here, I wouldn’t be answerable for my actions - Quidditch you know.”

Romilda Vane leaned the broomstick against the bench and smiled broadly at Oliver Wood.

* * *

“Why is all of Slytherin barring Malfoy in the nude?” Zacharias demanded, as Justin levitated him back into the stands with his wand, “Why is Flint playing? What’s going on?”

Justin Finch-Fletchley ignored him. He had had his fill of all this Quidditch madness and all this fighting. Instead, he stalked over to where Malfoy and Ron, Neville and Goyle were wrestling with each other like Michal and Ruth in one of their worse fights. He stood there, arms akimbo, dwarfed by Draco and Ron. He would have been dwarfed by Neville and Goyle as well, if they had been standing up, but they were merely rolling around on the floor of the box like five year olds in a fight.

(“Isn’t this exciting?” Daphne asked Theodore, “Aren’t you glad I made you come?”

“Personally,” said Theodore, “I’m more worried that our daughter is growing up to be a nudist. It is time to draw a line.”)

Oddly enough, the mere fact of Justin’s presence made the four of them pause in their childish mill.

“Oh thank god,” said Hermione, omniculars still trained on the match, to make sure her precious child was not about to be bludgeoned to death by some Slytherin, “Someone needs to tell them all to grow up.”

“Get up,” Justin told Goyle.

Goyle did. Goyle also made the mistake of smirking unpleasantly down at Justin.

“Oh dear,” said Zacharias, “Not again.”

Justin’s fist flashed out and caught Goyle neatly on his jaw. Goyle stumbled backwards, tripped over the bench and hit his head on the ground with a sharp crack. He passed out immediately.

Ron and Neville simply stood there stunned as Justin turned to Malfoy, who was sneering at his fallen comrade.

He slapped Draco hard across the face.

“Grow up,” said Justin, “All of you.”

* * *

“Albus,” shrieked Rose in horror, “You can’t do that!”

“Why not?” demanded Oliver Wood, “I always thought it was a stupid rule.”

Albus Potter, comforting a quaking Jeremy Brown - he’d been plucked off his broom by Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley and Ariadne Greengrass-Nott, cooed over, petted like a lapdog and then returned to his broom once Frederic Goyle had got a chance to score for Slytherin like his twin - took a different view. He had been attacked by Lucy Weasley with a Quidditch modified lacrosse stick that had begun life as Roxanne’s beater bat, when he tried to appeal to her familial sensibilities concerning Slytherin’s tactical nudity. It was unfair, he thought. Rose was the only team member who’d managed to escape the long and wild arm of Slytherin. Even Scorpius, who’d hitherto stood aloof from the revelries of his fellow Slytherins had given in to the temptation presented by Mr Davies’ absence and reached out a long arm and yanked hard on Shavonne’s ankle while chasing after the Snitch, nearly pulling her off her broom.

It was too much to be borne.

“Can too,” he told her, “Someone has to stand up for Gryffindor.”

“Yes,” she said, “But -”

Fred and Douglas came back together, bearing the Sorting Hat between them.

“If I could’ve done this as captain,” Oliver said enviously, “Slytherin would’ve been _dead_.”

“Albus don’t be _stupid_ ,” begged Rose.

“ _Once more unto the breach, dear friends_ ,” yelled Albus instead, ignoring his cousin. He drew the sword of Gryffindor out from the hat, “ _Or fill this damn field with our Gryffindor-ish dead_! _The game’s afoot; Cry ‘God for Potter, England and Saint Godric!_ ’”

The Gryffindor team cheered, the Gryffindors on the stands roared, drowning out the cries of ‘ _FOUL!_ ’ from the various Slytherins.

“Gryffindor rallies,” said Honoria, “And so we come to Agincourt.”

(“ _Well_ ,” said Theodore, roused at last to indignation, “My _ancestors_ fought at Agincourt. I shall be forced to write a letter to the school board about this.”)

* * *

He was close, _so close_ , to accomplishing his task. Everything had worked perfectly so far. The box on the other end had filled up and Krum, delayed by a last minute message from his secretary which it turned out his secretary had never sent at all (he always did have a flair for forgery), had been forced to sit on the other side in the second box appointed for the parents attending these matches. Right in front of him. The bloke he’d nabbed in London had failed with Smith, but no matter. Someone would finish the job later. Probably one of those vampire chaps the bloke kept inviting to his place like they were pals. Dark creatures were enemies, not friends. It’d come around to Smith in the end: why look for a poor shop boy, when they had a vampire mafia to nab, what with the report Smith was to be publishing soon about the scale of graft and bribery in the upper echelons of the Quidditch associations?

What mattered was that the distraction had worked and there was no way they would ever connect the Imperius to _him_ of all the people at the match.

The only problem was the small child seated next to him. One of those muds, related to someone on the Gryffindor team. Probably the Keeper. There were many Browns in England, most of them muggle. She insisted on squirming and the squirming brought her closer to him every moment. He was _not_ a prejudiced man like some of the people he’d known in the past, but everyone knew the muds were notoriously dirty and these _were_ his nice tweed robes. Not his best ones, but his lucky ones. A job like this demanded luck. Just like a mud to get in the way.

There was only one thing for him to do.

* * *

“ _RED CARD_ !” shouted Dean Thomas, “ _ALL OF YOU! RED CARD!_ ”

* * *

He subtly shifted in his seat, so that his wand pointed at the little girl without it being obvious that he had aimed it at her, and then muttered the incantation for the Stinging Hex underneath his breath. Not enough to hurt her _badly_ , but enough to make her cry.

And cry she did. Her mother scooped her up after inquiries as to the source of the discomfort yielded no answers.

He breathed a sigh of relief and removed a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed his forehead and then stood up.

* * *

“ _YAH_!” shouted Albus, swiping wildly with his sword at Lucy Weasley’s not-quite-a-lacrosse-stick.

* * *

Two hands were placed heavily on his shoulders.

“Francis Burke,” said Harry Potter, glaring nastily down at the man, “I’m arresting you for the attempted murders of Zacharias Smith and Viktor Krum, the use of an Unforgivable on Jimmy Peakes, the disappearance of Florean Fortescue and violating the TOAD rule by being a sleeper agent for the Russian government on British soil.”

“And I’ll take that if you please,” said Anthony, deftly taking Burke’s handkerchief from him and revealing a tiny, nearly invisible dart, no doubt coated with a potent poison, folded neatly into it, “Mr Burke, or should I say, Vulchanov, Agent _Knockturn_?”

Francis Burke looked up at the two men and then caved.

“And I came so close,” he said unhappily, “Damn mudblood.”

“And for using a blood supremacist slur,” Harry added.

* * *

“All of you,” Neville thundered at the two teams, over the megaphone, “You will land your brooms immediately - and that includes you Wood and Flint, I expected _better_ of you. Slytherin will put their clothes back on, or else they will be forced to wear Hufflepuff and Gryffindor robes that my wife Hannah will be more than happy to supply you with, since the house has apparently _burnt_ through any spare supplies of robes there might have been in the name of ‘high spirits’. No, Malfoy, you may not ask me who won, your are both disqualified - in fact you are _all_ disqualified, all of you, including Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, for your _shameful_ and _appalling_ behaviour this year all conducted in the name of _sports_ -”

He was drowned out for a moment by the loud booing, from both the students and the parents.

“Do not argue with me, Potter,” he said, “Or I’ll put you in detention for a month in addition to the month you and your fellow teammates - yes this includes the Slytherin Quidditch team - will be spending in detention copying out the line ‘Quidditch is not the be all and the end all of the world’ - incredible, I know, Weasley, but I will not be moved. I am _disappointed_ and _shocked_ at the behaviour we’ve seen this year. Violence and dirty play formerly seen only in the leagues! Xenophobia! Bullying! I am _appalled_ that the students of this school should have stooped to such behaviour though frankly I’m not surprised at all - with your parents for examples -”

Some lively Slytherins let out a loud “OooooooooOOh” and one of them even set off a Dissimulator in Slytherin colours. These spirited few were quickly quelled when Neville glared fiercely at them.

“I have to say I am equally disappointed in the behaviour of the parents attending these matches. You are meant to be examples to these children -”

(“How boring,” said Daphne, delicately putting a hand to her mouth as she yawned, “How dreadfully preachy. Teddy darling, you must write him a letter complaining about it.”)

“Instead you have showed them the _worst_ possible side of house rivalry; you have even fought like five year olds; you have taken the school nurse to court over _slander_ when she pointed out that your meddling was responsible for the bloodbath that was Ravenclaw versus Slytherin; you have even nearly bankrupted each other over your petty house rivalries.

“Since you will not teach your children, I will. There will be no house cup this year. No, do not argue with me Ms Flint. There will be no Quidditch at all next year. I will not be moved Mr Weasley, please be quiet. We can all play chess, instead, and meditate on the virtues of wisdom - please put your clothes on Ms Smith-Finch-Fletchley - and interhouse cooperation. Thank you, no Professor Vane I will not lighten the punishment for your Gryffindors - oh and Mr Davies, maybe next time you will remember that you are a wizard and not a bleating sheep - I am going to my room, I will not be disturbed there - Hannah dear please bring me my bottle of Scotch?”

* * *

“There,” said Theodore Nott triumphantly, “What did I tell you? Good day for slaughter. Pity about the match though.”

* * *

“We’re never talking about Quidditch again,” said Justin.

“No,” agreed Zacharias.

“Not at all.”

“No.”

“Not even when the Caerphilly Catapults are playing.”

“No.”

Justin heaved a sigh of relief.

“You know,” he said, “I hated those leafy vegetable diets anyway.”

* * *

“Let us remember those,” said Honoria solemnly, as the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams slowly and angrily made their way off the field, “Who fought bravely today, for house and country - Angustam amice pauperiem pati robustus acri militia puer; dulce et decorum est pro Patria mori -”

“Honoria dear,” said Gabriel, “I think that’s quite enough.”

* * *

 

 

>   
>  (cont. from pg 1) The targets are believed to have been former international Quidditch superstar, Viktor Krum, and the Finance Editor for _The Wixenomist_ , Zacharias Smith, allegedly concerning their work exposing corruption in the sports world. Longtime Borgin and Burke employee Francis Burke alias Vassily Vulchanov has been arrested in connection with these assassination attempts and is now being held for questioning by the Auror department under the Tacent Official Act Decision (TOAD) ruling. It is believed that he was acting on orders delivered by a member of the Russian secret service and that he has been a sleeper agent for them in England since the 1970s when he joined Mr Borgin in running his shop, claiming to be a long lost nephew of the original Mr Burke.
> 
> Both Mr Krum and Mr Smith had found evidence showing that funds for the stadium’s construction had been misappropriated by various officials in the Russian and English Ministries, as well as the Quidditch associations. Mr Krum’s resignation from both the Quidditch associations earlier this year is believed to have been the result of his unwillingness to turn a blind eye to the corruption rampant in the ICQWC and FIQA. Earlier this month, Mr Krum had been threatened by members of the vampire terrorist mafia organization, the Billingsgate Brotherhood, to fix the results of the Quidditch World Cup finals in 2026. The assassination attempt is believed to have been an attempt to silence Mr Krum once and for all, to prevent him from bringing charges in the ICW against various high-level officials in the Russian government on grounds of corruption.
> 
> The attempt on Mr Smith’s life is believed to have been the result of a report on corruption in Quidditch - at both national and international levels - soon to be published in _Quidnunc?_ that Mr Smith had been working on for months now. The report is said to contain extremely damaging information concerning bribery and the misappropriation of funds by FIQA, ICWQC and various government officials from Russia, England and several other European countries.
> 
> The British Quidditch Association has issued a formal statement decrying all forms of hooliganism among Quidditch fans, ‘even if they happen to be the wives and friends of the Boy Who Lived’. Mr Malfoy and his wife, Mr Weasley, Mr Goyle, Mrs Weasley-Potter and Minister Finch-Fletchley are believed to have resolved the dispute amongst themselves. FIQA issued a statement this afternoon, following the match, adding ‘tactical nudity’ to the list of seven hundred fouls prohibited under their handbook of Quidditch rules and regulations and have promised to look into the issue of referee training, especially for referees seeking employ at the school level. Several public inquiries have been launched into the allegations brought against the Department of Magical Sports and Games and the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

From: _The Daily Prophet: Evening Edition_ , 25 May 2024.

* * *

 

 

> **ROTFANG CONSPIRACY AT HOGWARTS REVEALED!**
> 
> Skeptics and believers alike will be delighted to know that at long last the Rotfang Conspiracy at Hogwarts has been revealed through the assiduous efforts of Mr Longbottom, Mr Potter and Mr Goldstein. A Mr Burke whose name also happens to be Mr Vulchanov is thought to have been the ringleader of the Rotfang Conspiracy, though we must say we believe that a much more likely candidate is to be found in Mr Malfoy; we are told it is he who is directly responsible for the recent spate of bloody violence at Hogwarts. We would not be surprised in the least if he was responsible for dental rot as well. Nevertheless, now that the conspiracy has been revealed, Headmaster Longbottom is now at liberty to clean the school. The partner of your beloved correspondent interviewed him shortly after the conspiracy was revealed: “I don’t care,” said Mr Longbottom, opening his third bottle of Scotch, “Fumigate Hogwarts for Nargles if you like. I just want to be alone.”

From: _The Quibbler_ 26 May - 1 June 2024

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Cavaliers and the Roundheads were the two participating groups in the English Civil War between 1642 and 1651. The Cavaliers were supporters of the king while the Roundheads were supporters of Oliver Cromwell. 
> 
> Albus Potter’s first inspirational speech to his team is a riff off the famous St Crispin’s Day Speech from Henry V. His second speech is a paraphrase of the famous ‘Once more unto the breach dear friends’ speech also from Henry V.
> 
> The St Crispin’s Day Speech, in Henry V, is delivered before the battle of Agincourt – where the English fought the French and won even though they were severely outnumbered. Honoria’s implication that the Slytherins are meant to be the French is a reference to the rather Norman roots of their captain, Scorpius Malfoy. It is also an insult to any English aristocrat (and presumably snotty pureblood) who draws great pride from having ancestors who fought bravely at Agincourt.
> 
> Tides in the affairs of men is another paraphrase of a famous Shakespearean quote: There is a tide in the affairs of men. Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune – from Julius Caesar, Act IV, Scene III.
> 
> The Bulgarian dissident, Georgi Markov, was assassinated in 1978 on Waterloo Bridge by (it is assumed) a member of the Bulgarian secret service, using an [umbrella](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulgarian_umbrella) to inject ricin pellets into him. The umbrella assassination in this fic draws inspiration from it.
> 
> Vauxhall is the irl location of MI6's headquarters in London. The Vauxhall Vampires, therefore, is the equivalent of Le Carre's spies calling the secret service 'the Circus'. 
> 
> Angustam amice pauperiem pati robustus acri militia puer; dulce et decorum est pro patria mori is an excerpt from Horace’s Odes (3.2). It roughly [translates](http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.02.0025%3Abook%3D3%3Apoem%3D2) to: To suffer hardness with good cheer, In sternest school of warfare bred; What joy, for fatherland to die!. 
> 
> Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori was popularized by Wilfred Owen in his poem on the use of poison gas in warfare – the line is now known as ‘the old lie’. Honoria’s reference to the Ode, therefore, is more ironic and less earnest.
> 
> The TOAD rule owes its name (and clever abbreviation) to [EssayOfThoughts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts).


	13. Chapter 13

Anthony Goldstein walked into his office on Monday morning with a sprightly step and a twinkle in his eye. Life was, as they say, good. The Percy Weasley affair had sorted itself out on its own once they’d hauled in Burke for questioning. The scandal was blowing up in the press, of course, but the Service had acquitted itself honorably and so all the ire of the public was being directed exclusively at the twin forces of FIQA and the ICQWC. There were protests in Russia – the current Minister was popular only as far as power made anyone popular – but none of that was his business. Foreign affairs were proceeding smoothly and there were, for the time being, no more sleeper agents lying around in wait in England’s green and pleasant land.

On the more domestic and private side, things were slowly grinding to a peaceful halt. Harry Potter was getting along happily, conducting raids on Borgin and Burke’s and generally being a nuisance to all dark wizards. Hermione was busy drafting out a new legislation concerning corruption and graft. Ginny Weasley was at the forefront of the press’ crusade against FIQA and the ICQWC, Viktor Krum having chosen to pursue the more boring and unglamorous route of pressing charges in the Wizengamot and the international justice system. The Malfoys had retreated to their home with their tails between their legs, presumably to recover in time for their Halloween Charity Ball. Michael had written a graceful and earnest apology to Ernie that Anthony strongly suspected Terry had written for him but no matter: the two were talking once again. Even Zach had forgiven him for pinching his Aston and had, in a fit of goodwill, gone so far as to offer him driving lessons in it. Anthony suspected this had to do with the fact that Minister Finch-Fletchley had taken leave for a ‘second honeymoon’, and not any particular merit of his.

In sum, everything was peachy, there were birds in the sky, Voldemort was in his grave and all was right with the world.

“You have an art appreciation lesson today,” Lisa Turpin told him, as he arranged the pencils on his desk in preparation for an idle morning pushing papers.

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do,” she said, “The V&A. There’s a new exhibition on the art of sport the Lion’s very keen on you seeing. The entry fee’s fifteen quid, by the way. And after that, you should probably take a look at the Three Fates. Tapestry exhibition, obviously.”

“God,” said Anthony, “I hate this job.”

The tapestry room was a dimly lit room, which made it a popular place for their more cloak and dagger meetings. Needless to say, Anthony was not fond of it. There were plenty of dark corners to be found in London. Starting in fashionable Soho, for example. A dimly lit room that reeked strongly of old socks soaked in wine was not the only option. It showed a sad lack of creativity on their part. A kind of bureaucratic stupidity, doggedly adhering to old ritual. Still, he went, because the tapestry room could only mean one thing.

“Goldstein,” said the cloaked figure, standing in front of the tapestry of Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos, “I suppose you’ll want thanking for an averted crisis, thanks to your quick thinking. E tells us that you have irritated the Russians. A very ignoble distinction very few of us earn despite our best efforts.”

“Thank you ma’am,” said Anthony meekly.

“Especially ignoble,” she continued drily, “Since they now know your identity.”

“Ah,” said Anthony, “I can explain –“

“Yes, yes. Unavoidable given the circumstances,” said W testily, “I’d be as rich as that ferrety-friend of yours if I had a galleon every time one of you told me the same damn thing.”

Anthony shuffled his feet uncomfortably, feeling more of a schoolboy than he’d ever felt at school.

“Still I am grateful,” she said, “Without your timely intervention your Ministerial friend would have had my head on a platter. And our budget would have been halved.”

Anthony knew all about the budget. Anthony also knew that the lads down in finance were already drafting up a budget demanding twice the amount of funding they’d received in the previous year.

They did that every year.

“All in a day’s work,” he said flippantly.

“Of course,” she continued, “You understand that this is only the beginning. Once your journalist friend publishes his exposé and Krum starts dragging them through the courts, they’ll come after him in earnest – a holiday in the Caribbean at this time of year, remarkably unwise of them, isn’t it?”

“It’s their –“ began Anthony, with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Second honeymoon,” said W, “I know. And you’ll be accompanying them with your husband. In your unofficial capacity as a family friend.”

“I –“

“And while you’re there, Goldstein,” said W, finally turning away from the tapestry, “You might find out why your friend, Mr Corner, has managed to get himself involved with a group of vampire terrorists who have a vested interest in bringing down the British state.”

 

 

**-FIN-**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In sum, everything was peachy, there were birds in the sky, Voldemort was in his grave and all was right with the world", is a paraphrase of another Wodehouse-ism.


End file.
